


An Appeal To Heaven

by OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink



Series: The Aristocrats AU [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Political AU, Trans Character, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 91,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 46th President of the United States faces new obstacles in 2014 with the promises of war on the horizon. The Vice President has started weaving a tighter web around her family and her growing dynasty, planning for the new Camelot she intends to rule. The First Lady begins to explore the possibility of a future of her own making. Will Graham is alive and he considers that the life he's come home to is at a cost he has to be accountable for.<br/>And where you cut off one DRAGON's head, another grows...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

*****

Agent Margot Verger waited patiently and apprehensively for the President’s reply. She’d felt a sick twist of nausea when she’d learned what Graham had been transporting with him and she’d been the only one willing to volunteer to tell Lecter, not that she particularly eager to have the task. But he had to be informed sooner rather than later and considering how it was less awkward to be around him than her fellow agents, she figured she might as well be the person to break the news to him.

While he’d always been good at concealing his emotions from those around him, Margot was still very surprised when he remained calm and nearly emotionless at what she’d told him. 

“Where is it now?” he asked quietly.

“We commandeered one of the hospital’s mini fridges that they use for lab tests. Have it in there,” she told him. “We’re trying to decide what to do with it.”

“Have any samples been taken from it?”

“Yes.”

He looked past her down the hall then met her eyes once more. “Take me to it.” 

She nodded and began to walk quickly down the hall; she could feel the eyes of every agent on the two of them, studying for any clue as to how he’d accepted the information. The small lab room had become a temporary headquarters for the Secret Service and when the door was opened by one of her fellow agents, it was revealed that eight other agents had taken up residence inside as they awaited orders. Agent Price stood up from a swivel stool he’d claimed by the countertop, setting his microwaved Hot Pocket down as he looked between her and the President.

“If I may have a moment alone?” Hannibal requested to the agents.

“Right,” Price said, motioning for everyone to file out and grabbed his Hot Pocket.

The President stared at her and she took the hint to leave as well, shutting the door behind her. Leaning with her back against the door to forbid anyone from entering, she forced herself to look at the other agents.

Price’s expression looked grim. “He knows?”

She nodded. He nodded too, telling four of the eight agents to leave for a moment; that garnered a few confused looks, but no arguments. 

Once satisfied they wouldn’t be eavesdropped on, Price leaned in quietly and told her, Katz, Martinez, and Green, “Perlman is still trying to decide what to do. It’s one thing that Graham killed people in self-defense, but removing someone’s kidney will have to be investigated if it’s in the official report.”

“Lecter will know what to do,” Margot whispered and Katz nodded.

The door opened behind her and everyone stood at attention, looking to the President for guidance. It wasn’t as though as agents they weren’t competent, but this was an event that was so far out of their league that turning to the President for directions was the only thing they could do at this point; Lecter was a rational man and it was his boyfriend they were talking about, so making him solve the problem was only fair.

“If I might have an escort to the basement incinerator?” he requested.

Price took a step forward, calm and assuming smile on his face. “Right, I’ll take you down.”

“I’ll come with you,” Margot said, coming to stand in front of him as part of his escort.

Katz joined their guard and the four of them made their way to one of the elevators. There was a daunting silence and as the President stepped into the large lift, pressing the button for the basement level, Margot’s hand rest on her weapon, feeling antsy. 

Margot accidentally made eye contact with Katz and she was quick to avert her gaze; Margot knew that the rest of the team didn’t care for her and the longer Graham had been missing, the more suspicious they’d been that she or her brother had been involved. At least now Graham could vouch for her innocence. She didn’t ever expect to be best friends with everyone she worked with, but so long as her brother was alive, she seemed destined to remain a loner, her name’s notorious reputation preceding her. At least Lecter didn’t judge her. Or maybe he simply wasn’t afraid of her.

In the basement, Lecter walked confidently between the three agents and Margot admired how he held his head high, as though he owned everywhere he walked; she was no shrinking violet, but living under a shadow taught her not to draw any attention to herself. And here he was, most likely transporting the human kidney his boyfriend had taken from someone in Florida down to an incinerator—if she didn’t know better, she would simply assume he was conducting an appraisal of the facility.

_‘We’re helping the President of the United States destroy evidence in a homicide,’_ she thought to herself, tension in her stomach at the thought of how surreal the matter was. _‘This is literally a conspiracy to cover up what’s possibly the most defining point in his presidency.’_

Not that she thought anyone would ever fault Graham for killing people to escape or in self-defense, but maiming and organ removal really wasn’t something that anyone could just push aside. Besides, their affair would be public knowledge at some point and no one would like knowing that the President associated with people who did such grotesque things—the whole Abel Gideon thing was hard enough to swallow as it was!

The President paused outside the incinerator room’s door and then said quietly to them, “I do not wish to involve anyone in what I am about to do.”

“We’ll just wait right out here,” Jimmy said solemnly as Katz entered the room momentarily to make sure it was clear of anyone.

When Katz stepped out and gave the President a nod that it was safe, he entered and quietly shut the door behind him. Margot wished she could watch him burn the organ out of sheer curiosity, but it had seemed inappropriate to ask if she could join him anyway, so she simply dwelt on other matters of great concern to her.

Margot thought it was very strange that she’d not called Mason and Cordell to tell them she wouldn’t be coming over, and yet they hadn’t attempted to contact her even once during the night. Dawn was approaching in a few hours and he’d expected at least some sort of message questioning where she was, why she hadn’t checked in. It alarmed her—Mason _had_ to know she was here, there was no other explanation. 

Unless he’d died during the night and everyone was too busy trying to get Mason’s affairs in order that they’d forgotten to contact her.

But that seemed highly unlikely, so she just had to assume that her brother had somehow found out that Graham had been recovered and that she’d be unavailable to see him for the time being. Her brother had eyes and ears everywhere, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if he had a spy somewhere in the White House aside from herself. If the media had found out, the Secret Service would have been informed, which ruled out a news story about the matter. 

The door to the incinerator room opened ten minutes later and she could only begin to imagine how angry Mason would be for not bringing back the body part for him to use for blackmail. She had no intention of telling him. Unless his mole was a Secret Service agent, then he’d never find out.

When the President stepped out, she, Katz, and Price were quick to escort him back upstairs, where Agent Perlman was waiting. 

“Mr President—“ Perlman pulled the President into a quick embrace rather than the handshake the President had seemed to anticipate, “—hell of a night, isn’t it? I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner—had to debrief everyone in the office of the successful surgery. Mazel tov. How are you doing? Can anyone get you anything?”

The President took a step back. “I am fine, Agent Perlman.”

Perlman nodded. “I’ve been informed that you were told about the souvenir Mr Graham brought back from his vacation?”

“Unfortunately it wasn’t my taste, so I disposed of it.”

Perlman looked relieved. “Fine with me. We can still run tests on the samples taken—no one will be the wiser.”

“I am glad we agree.”

“This is obviously his encephalitis—no need to drag paperwork and scrutiny into the matter.”

“You are worried about my reelection,” Lecter said. 

“I’m not supposed to make any messes or get in your way. Gonna keep this path clear. Boss’ orders.”

Margot wondered who exactly Perlman’s boss was, considering those weren’t orders sanctioned by the Secret Service or Treasury Department. Rumours of the Vice President’s involvement in the matters of the Secret Service activities concerning the First Family had been floating around for the better part of a year, and while Margot had never had any private conversation with Du Maurier, she knew there was a sizable portion of the Uniformed Division who ate out of the woman’s hand. 

“I appreciate what you have done on Will’s behalf,” the President said.

“It’s been a privilege,” Perlman said with a smile. “This should be wrapped up in about six months if I get the right people on the committees I have to answer to.”

“Agent Perlman, I would never ask you to compromise the integrity of your position to find a favourable ruling on my behalf,” the President said, his voice not reprimanding, but certainly firm.

“No, of course not,” Perlman agreed, though Margot didn’t think it sounded very sincere.

The President’s assistant approached, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, but looking slightly freshened up with her makeup reapplied. “Mr President, the First Lady is asking for you.”

*****

Will could see stars dancing overhead as he rode on the gurney which rattled and bounced with every small imperfection; blood was draining from his sinuses and down his throat, forcing him to swallow it down. It made his stomach churn, thinking about the nutrients his stomach would attempt to absorb from it. A cloth was removed from his face and he saw that stars were burning holes through the ceiling of the building he was now in, wherever that was. A hospital?His hand was tightly fisted and he kept smiling at Hannibal. Strangers when we meet, strangers when we meet. All my violence, raging tears upon the sheets—I’m resentful, for we’re strangers when we meet.

_“Steely resolve is falling from me. My poor soul, poor bruised passivity. All your regrets ran ruptured over me! I’m so glad that we’re strangers when we meet!”_

He could hear the music playing loudly and he thought it was very nice that the hospital would do that for the patients—it made him feel very upbeat about the situation, actually. 

“I’m so thankful that we’re strangers when we meet. I’m in clover, when we’re strangers when we meet,” he sang to Hannibal.

“Heel head over, but we’re strangers when we meet,” Hannibal sang to him in return, voice still sounding like David Bowie’s. 

Will smiled broadly at him, glad Hannibal understood as he was wheeled into the operating theatre; the nurses pirouetted and a surgeon who looked like Mikhail Baryshnikov swept in as a breathing mask was placed over Will’s mouth. As the gas began to fill his mouth he reached out for Hannibal.

“Strangers when we meet,” he sang one last time before succumbing to the anesthesia.

*****

Abigail arrived while Will was still in surgery—nearly eight o’clock. Waiting was the worst part. Her body wanted to move and burn off the pent up anxiety, but every time she shifted in her chair, she imagined her father’s disapproving look and she’d still; trying to retreat to her mind palace was unsuccessful as she was very distracted by the unfamiliar setting and the fear she felt of the unknown.

Barney sat with her for a while and attempted to get her to talk about her online classes, but she wasn’t able to keep the conversation going very well, so she requested that he just talk to her about art or anything so she didn’t have to be alone with her thoughts. She watched him talk about Vermeer as thought it was a performance, her eyes focusing on his lips moving, on the formations of sounds, of the passion he spoke of when he told her that he planned on seeing every Vermeer in the world one day. She nodded occasionally and thought about her father saving Will’s life. 

Agents Perlman and Katz had arrived together straight from the White House around midnight and Barney took his leave to go find her something to drink, which she appreciated. Abigail watched Agent Katz curiously as she sat down beside her, Perlman drifting off to talk to other agents milling around.

“Hey,” Katz greeted. She looked tired. 

“Hi.” Abigail’s voice felt small.

“Jimmy told me he’s still in surgery?”

“Um, yes. They’re trying to put part of his skull back in alignment.” She’d overheard that from one of the nurses who’d stopped by to tell her how the surgery was going. 

“Oh jeez.” Katz rubbed her hands over her face. “Did they tell you that Will called me?”

Abigail felt a small jolt, now fully attentive to the other woman. “No.”

“I was sitting in the office and my cellphone started ringing. Unknown number, so I ignored it. But it kept ringing—I hung up on him about five times, but thank god he’s persistent. I finally picked up and there he was.” Katz swallowed hard and her eyes were focused on the shiny linoleum floor. 

Abigail’s emotions were causing her stomach to flip, and while she wasn’t feeling anger, she felt a crushing sense of despair, as though Will was still missing. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“There’s someone on Craigslist who has a number similar enough to mine that if you dial the last two numbers out of order, you get me. I’ve been dealing with it for half a year now because the Secret Service won’t do the paperwork to get me a new number.” Katz gave a humourless smile. “Thought it was someone trying to buy an old towel rack again.”

Sometimes Abigail’s own graces towards others surprised her. The discomfort at Katz’s admission began to dissolve away. “Was Will scared?”

“Yeah, but not in a ‘I’m-hiding-in-a-corner-shaking’ sort of way. Like in a ‘shit-what-do-I-do?’ sort of way.”

“I was told he was in Florida.” Abigail raised an eyebrow, hoping for confirmation.

Katz nodded. “Marathon. On one of the islands.”

“He must have been so scared.” 

“He’s home now. And your dad will be taking care of him. Saul already has a list of psychiatrists that are approved to hear classified information to help Will through the psychological trauma.”

It took Abigail a second to process whom she was talking about. “Agent Perlman?”

Katz nodded. “He’s been planning for everything. Medical equipment is being moved into the Lincoln Bedroom right now and there are all sorts of procedures for patients living at the White House.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Is he coming home with us?”

“Whenever the doctors are willing to discharge him.”

“I can’t believe this is actually happening. It’s all so surreal.”

“Want a hug?” 

“Yes,” Abigail admitted and Katz smiled, pulling her into a warm and very grounding embrace.

“You’re not the only one who’s happy. Will’s a great guy,” Katz said as she rubbed the heel of her palm across Abigail’s back. 

Abigail realised was shaking and she buried her face against the agent’s neck; she couldn’t even find the tears to cry and exhaustion was working its way into her system. 

“Oh god—my emotions don’t know what to do,” she admitted after a few minutes.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Katz murmured. 

Once her breathing began to settle and she was no longer trembling, she pulled away. “No one’s told me what happened to him. Why he had to go into surgery. Did he fall off something? Was he shot?”

Katz was quiet, worrying her lower lip between her teeth before she said, “I don’t know if your dad wants me to tell you.”

“I need to know.”

Katz made a face, glanced over at the agents standing along the wall of the waiting area and then said to her lowly. “Someone stabbed him in the face.”

“Oh.” She felt her hand driving a blade through bone and knew exactly how damaging and debilitating it could be. 

“You okay?” Katz asked hesitantly.

“What does it look like?” Abigail said abruptly. 

“I don’t know. They were having a hard time identifying him.” Katz was quick to add, “But that was just because of all the blood, I think.”

A nauseating thought hit her hard. “Is his brain injured?”

“I don’t know.” Katz took Abigail’s hands between hers. “First Lady, Abigail, I just want you to know that Will fought his way out of this. He saved himself. He’s a fighter and if this couldn’t kill him, nothing will.”

“I’m just glad he’s back home. I’m never going to let him go again,” she murmured, thinking about how he’d once suggested she wanted him locked up in a cage.

“Good plan.” Katz let her hands go and then offered a tired smile. “If you want to get some rest, I can have one of the hospital beds cleared for you to sleep in. Might be good for you.”

“I can’t. I couldn’t if I wanted to.” 

“You’re going to crash pretty hard,” the agent warned her.

“I know.” She’d sleep for a thousand years once this was over. “But I need to be awake for both of them.”

Katz nodded and after a while left to go sleep in one of the rooms the Secret Service had taken to use. Abigail did get up from the chair eventually to do a few stretches in the vicinity so that if anyone did come out to update her on what was happening, she wouldn’t miss them. But there was only quiet and the kind smiles of nurses on the night shift walking by. 

Finally, finally, someone came to see her as an agent told her that Will and her father were out of surgury. A shorter man in surgical scrubs and bags under his eyes smiled at her. 

“First Lady Lecter, I’m Dr Bahkta. I headed up Mr Graham’s surgery tonight.”

Abigail thought it would make more sense to say ‘this morning’, but didn’t argue. “Is he all right?”

“The surgery went well. He was lucky to get here when he did.”

The doctor began to describe the surgery and its procedures, the injuries in laymen’s terms and she struggled to picture how Will would look. Phrases such as ‘blood loss’ and ‘facial reconstructive surgery’ and ‘brain scans’ drifted through the words as she imagined the words beside Will’s face like a medical text book waiting for her to study. But she lacked medical knowledge for putting someone back together—she only knew how to take things apart.

She realised the doctor had stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly, but she thought she’d be able to play off her response as being in shock.

“I will be forever grateful for the work you’ve done, Dr Bahkta. Anything you need, please contact my office.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else and turned to the agent closest to her. “I want to go see him.” 

The woman shook her head. “Have to wait until your dad says we can. Graham is getting x-rays and scans right now.”

Trying not to let her frustration show that she was being kept even longer from Will, she sat back down and tried to make a list of things she could do to prepare the White House for his return. She’d want to have all of his things moved into the Lincoln Bedroom’s sitting room, would need to have the refrigerator in the kitchen completely stocked up with all of his favourite foods—soft ones, as he’d had facial damage—and have the room repainted in a colour he liked, historical significance be damned. Oh, this probably meant he’d need a private full time nurse as well, which would bring a stranger into  _her_  house,  _their_  house, and she didn’t want that, unless her father would let her drop her First Lady’s duties and take care of Will instead—

An agent approached her, carefully carrying three red solo cups of ice chips. 

“Your father told me to bring this for you,” he said, offering them over to her.

“Oh.” She accepted them, unsure what to make of it.

Another agent came from the opposite side of the corridor, carrying three red cups as well. “Oh, I thought I was bringing her the ice.”

“Did he tell you to bring her some, too?” the other agent asked, glancing the additional cups over.

“Probably forgot he told you.”

“Thank you,” she said to interrupt their conversation, accepting the other cups of ice.

Her father would never be so absentminded that he’d request two people to do the same task, so as the agents were dismissed back to their posts, she snuck an ice chip into her mouth and waited to see what he wanted over her. After five minute, Miss Mapp walked down the corridor and Abigail took it as the opportunity she needed for an answer.

“Miss Mapp?”

Her father’s assistant paused, looking up from her compact mirror. “Yes, Abigail?”

“Could you see if my father is ready to see me now?”

Miss Mapp nodded, glancing around. “Sure, let me find him.”

Abigail had to wait ten minutes before her father came to fetch her and she swallowed the ice chip she’d just taken out of the cup, feeling the hard cold lump slide down her throat as she stood up. He glanced down at the six cups she’d still kept and said, 

“You received the ice. If you will come with me.” 

Her father had on surgical scrubs, something that caught her off guard, even though she always thought of him as a doctor. Down the south end of the corridor she’d been waiting in was a public men’s restroom and he led her inside. She shut the door behind her; as she opened her mouth to ask him for information, he removed a plastic bag that had been taped around the bottom of his calve, hidden beneath the baggy trouser leg of his scrub pant and moved over to her silently, motioning for her purse. As she held it out to him, she saw that it was actually a double bagged piece of something wet and human, possibly a kidney or liver—he moved too fast for her get a good look. Taking the cups of ice chips out of her hands, she watched him pour them into the outer bag, providing a cold environment for the meat. He disposed of the plastic cups in the restroom’s trashcan and then sealed the bag tightly, slipping it into her purse, which he then handed back to her.  

“It should keep cool until we reach home.”

She nodded. “Is it…?”

He gave the smallest nod and she allowed herself to exhale. Perhaps he’d seen an opportunity here in the hospital and had culled to relieve stress or to celebrate. Either way, it was food for later and she was grateful for it.

“How is Will?” she asked, hoping for the best, dreading his answer.

He gave her a single nod. “Will shall live.”

“And REDDRAGON?”

He looked to her purse and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Will had taken a  _trophy_? She swallowed hard and forced herself onwards, needing more information in the short window of privacy they had.

“What was he in surgery for? All I heard from Agent Katz was that he was stabbed in his face?”

“A hunting knife. It appears that pressure was applied to the extent where his upper jaw was broken from the blade being moved in a rocking motion. He sustained damage to his left nostril, his sinus cavity and part of his ocular socket.”

“But his eye is fine?”

“Yes. His tongue was extremely lacerated due to the position of the knife blade, but his sense of taste and smell should remain intact. He shall have a long road towards recovery.”

“Was his brain hurt?”

“It is difficult to say with his encephalitis, but I detected no trauma during his preliminary. He has received an X-ray and MRI, and we will find out soon enough if there was anything additional we missed.” Then he added, “Will shall be in a medicated sleep for the next five to six days to allow his body to recover.”

“When will he come home?”

“Tomorrow at the earliest, if he does not show any signs of deterioration in his health and then I shall have him released into my care.”

“Our care,” she corrected absentmindedly as her hand clutched over her purse. “May I see him?”

“For a few minutes,” he agreed.

They exited the restroom together and she wiped her eyes as though she’d been crying. Her father led her down the corridors of the hospital and as if they were a pair of magnets, they collected various agents along the way, wishing to escort, wishing to see Will for themselves. They quietly said words of congratulations to she and her father; she nodded and thanked them for their kindnesses, knowing her father was undoubtably at the end of his patience in regards to others’ pity towards their family given the circumstances. At least Will’s room would be empty and they’d be allowed the privacy they needed to let their masks slip.  

Will’s hospital room was dark and the steady rhythm of the machine monitoring his heartbeat made her relax as she approached him. Her father stood to the side of the door, quiet and waiting her evaluation.

“Oh.” She took a step towards the bed entirely transfixed with what she saw. 

Abigail didn’t gasp, didn’t allow herself any signs of shock, even though it was shocking entirely to see his face bandaged and swollen, rough and peeled where sand and scuffs had torn at him. A few tears escaped her eyes and she brought up her hands to cover the smile that was spreading. He was perfect. He was  _perfect_. 

“He’s going to be beautiful,” she whispered reverently. “When I was little…”

She couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, to say that she’d dreamed of having men cut their faces off while she played with their dogs, that this was a dream becoming realised and it had happened to the man she loved as much as her father.

As she moved closer to study the parts of his face that weren’t hidden by gauze, her father spoke. “He was trying to say something to me as he went into surgery. I couldn’t tell what it was, though.”

“Do you think it was about the people who did this to him?”

“Possibly.” 

Will wasn’t skinny—he was emaciated, skin hanging loosely, paper thin and delicate. “They were starving him.”

“Yes.”

“How much weight did he lose?”

“Enough.”

She placed her hand atop Will’s and asked, “They’ve killed everyone who did this to him?”

“They have been informed that no prisoners are to be taken if it can be helped.”

Abigail was quiet in her thoughts, angry that she could not retaliate in her own way, grieving that Will had suffered at the hands of others when they’d been so close to becoming a family again.

“He called Agent Katz. Why not one of us?”

“He knew it would be a rescue operation and while I have the authority to authorise one, I would most likely not be immediately available to organise it. He took the chance that Agent Katz was at the White House still and would be able to reach the proper channels to assist him,” he explained. “And from what I’ve been told, he was hallucinating that I was there with him.”

“Oh.” She wondered if she’d been there, too. “I’m just glad he’s home where he belongs.” Her stomach clenched at the sight of the catheter bag attached to the side of the bed. “I hate seeing him so fragile. He deserves more than that.”

“This is a temporary form. He shall be whole and healthy by the end of the year,” he assured her.

“Should I put this in the freezer?” She rest her hand on her purse.

“Yes.”

Her fingers touched the soft blanket that covered him. “So if I go home to take care of a few matters, I won’t miss him waking up?”

“We might wake him this evening to inform him of the move, but no, you will not miss one another.”

She looked back up at her father. “We’ll need to hire a nurse.”

“I have already planned for that.”

“I don’t want Agent Brown as his senior agent anymore,” she added.

“We shall have him replaced,” he agreed. 

Emboldened at how the last time Will had been hospitalised her father had given her larger amounts of power to play with, she declared, “I shall interview the potential replacements and select the top five. You could pick the one you like best?”

He gave her the start of a smile, perhaps proud or amused. “Yes.”

“I’ll…go back and start the process. Should only be a few hours.”

“Take your time.”

“I will.” She lowered her head so as not to disrupt the wires and tubes attached to Will’s body, and taking his hand in hers, she kissed his knuckles, giving him a promise. “I love you. I’ll be back very soon.” Standing up, she went over to her father and exchanged a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

As she left the hospital room, she nodded to Agent Katz, who was waiting outside in the hallway and began to walk down the corridor, grateful to have tasks to take care of on her father’s behalf. Barney waited at the end of the corridor, talking quietly with another agent, holding a cup in his hand that steamed. Probably coffee. She was certain he’d just woken up—he’d been one of the agents who’d had to commandeer one of the hospital cots to get a few hours of rest through the night. When he saw her,he handed off his cup to the other agent, falling alongside her as they made their way towards the back of the building where her unmarked vehicle waited.

“Everything okay?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Abigail nodded and found a smile to wear. “He’s beautiful.”

Barney nodded, some of his tension gone. 

When she’d arrived at the hospital the night before, she’d forced Mrs Madchen via the phone not to send Georgia over, saying that she needed her assistant well rested for all the work in the morning. But the truth was that having Georgia’s optimism around her at a time like this would be nothing but smothering and somewhat insulting—she didn’t want to hear peptalks or have to comfort the other woman’s delicate soul over harsh matters such as torture and survival. Will was Abigail’s champion, a gladiator that had come into her life to clear a path for her future and she had every intention of honouring him. Georgia Madchen didn’t have the first idea how to do that.

Georgia, who was waiting for Abigail in the unmarked vehicle they’d take to the White House, was dressed neatly for the day, though had circles under her eyes—probably from spending half the night worrying instead of sleeping. 

“Abigail, is Will all right?”

“He’s great. He’s perfect.”

“Oh thank god. I’ve been praying every day for his safe return. And I wasn’t giving up hope, but I was so worried—“

Abigail cut her off, not wanting to hear anymore of her assistant’s dread—she’d been listening to it for months now. “He’s safe and sound now.”

Georgia gave her an admiring look. “You’re so strong. Are you okay?”

Abigail nodded. “I’m fine, just relieved.” 

“Was he badly hurt?”

“No. Well, yes, but I mean, he’ll recover. Nothing permanent.” She felt almost dizzy at the potential for Will’s beauty, but wasn’t going to allow it to distract her. “I need to get in contact with Kade Purnell, the agent who was in charge of the investigation for the shooting.”

“Got it.” As Georgia searched through the contacts on Abigail’s phone, she said, “I’m so happy for you.”

Abigail smiled, something genuine, because—as her hand rested over her cold purse—she was happy for herself, too.

*****

Beverly was a nosey person by habit, but she knew how to respect boundaries; she’d parked herself outside of Will’s room, relaxing from the last of the adrenaline and fighting the desire to go to sleep on the plastic chair that was stationed on the opposite wall of the hall. The hospital was fairly quiet and this particular wing reserved for burn victims had little activity aside from the occasional nurse or doctor passing through to check in on other patients. Will’s room was guarded by four Marines and a handful of Secret Service agents that the President had kicked out for privacy. 

She was going to be patient though and ask the President to let her see Will—hearing his voice on the other end of the phone call and knowing his was in a hospital room wasn’t enough to alleviate her anxiety about Will’s safety and wellbeing. She also felt incredibly guilty for hanging up on him and really wanted to apologise to him in person for making him wait that extra three minutes for help; she already knew that it would be something she’d never forgive herself for doing.

Abigail left Will’s room and Beverly exchanged an acknowledging nod to her. As badly as she wanted to knock on the door and ask to come in, she knew that the President wouldn’t respect that and that she’d have better luck waiting out in the hallway for him. The President’s assistant, Mapp, was sitting in a chair across from Beverly, filing her nails; she looked tired but resolute to stay within shouting range of Lecter should he need her for any task. Beverly had to admit she was more focused on Will at this point—he needed all the help he could get and if her positive thoughts made a difference, she was more than willing to give it.

Saul walked down the hallway towards her and she pulled her shoulders back so she didn’t look like she was slumping against the wall she’d leaned against. 

“Want a coffee?” he asked, hands relaxed casually in his pockets.

“Sure.” 

Saul knew by now how she liked her caffeine and she watched his ass as he walked off; she was pretty sure at this point he had his suit pants tailored to show off all that time he spent in the gym on his glutes. It was definitely worth it.

While she hadn’t been part of the official Graham recovery team, she’d been willing to spend time haunting the command centre to get some face time in with Saul. She’d known Will the best of any the agents—bar Matthew Brown—and she’d offered up any information about him that she thought might help on his profile. She’d also been good about running small favours for their group, such as doing lunch runs and putting in extra hours to help investigate leads on the tip line. Of course, she never said or did anything that wasn’t focused on the job, because what kind of person hit on a fellow sexy agent when one of their people was missing?

That being said, now that Will was back, she had every intention of getting to know Saul better—if she played her cards right, she’d have an engagement ring by the end of the year.

The door to Will’s room opened and she stood up from the wall, feeling her heart race. The President—still dressed in the surgical scrubs— spoke softly to one of the Marines standing guard, who nodded before returning to attention. He turned back towards the door and she knew she needed to take a chance and just ask  _now_.

“Could I see him?” she asked abruptly.

The President regarded her. “He’s resting at the moment.”

“I know. I just want to…see him.” She knew she sounded like she was nagging, but she really wanted to alleviate the guilt within her; if she could just apologise to Will for hanging up on him, she’d at least she’d know that he knew she hadn’t meant to compromise his safety.

What if she’d just picked up the first time? Would Will have been stabbed in the face?

“I do not believe he’d wish to have himself seen in this state, Agent Katz,” the President said gently.

“Gotcha.” She glanced away for a moment, humbled and then looking back up at him, asked, “If he wakes up, would you tell him that we’re all pulling for him?”

The President offered her a small and rare smile. “I shall. Thank you, Agent Katz.”

“And you’re okay?”

“I am.”

“If you need  _anything_ , just let us know. We’re all here for you.” How could anyone  _not_  feel their heart ache on behalf of the President right now? 

“Thank you, Beverly,” he said softly.

“Anytime, Mr President.”

Lecter slipped back into Will’s room, pulling the door closed behind him and she exhaled slowly through her nose; well, at least Lecter seemed okay, which she took as a good sign. There was a sharp whistle to catch her attention and she turned to look down the corridor, where Saul stood waiting with two cups of coffee and she smiled. 

*****

Kade was sitting up against the headboard of the Vice President’s bed, half dressed as she ate her egg McMuffin and read over her emails. The Vice President had an array of newspapers spread around her, eating a bowl of granola and yoghurt as she occasionally glanced up at the television. Only the first hints of Will Graham’s rescue were beginning to hit the media, none of it confirmed by the White House just yet. A few of the newspapers had dared to run a front page article showing stills of Graham’s hostage videos with titles questioning the rumours. Kade was to fly out to Texas this morning for an interview with an agent who’d filed a complaint against a fellow agent, and was very relieved that she didn’t have to deal with any of this mess.

She was staring at the screen where a White House correspondent was standing in the wind and cold at dawn to talk about the President missing his dinner the night before, when her phone buzzed in her hand. Glancing down, she was surprised to see the First Lady’s extension in the caller ID. 

“It’s your niece,” she told Bedelia, who raised an eyebrow as Kade answered the call. “Hello, First Lady Lecter. How are you this morning?”

“I’m well, and yourself?”

“I’m fine. What can I do for you?” Kade asked, wondering how long it would take for the young woman to get on her nerves.

“Will is going to need a new senior agent.”

An agent change? That set off a red flag in Kade’s mind. “Do you have a complaint against Agent Brown?”

“No, I would simply like someone else. I’m sure you and the Secret Service have a list of suitable replacements for senior agent, should something happen to Agent Brown. I intend on interviewing everyone on the list personally, and then my father and I shall pick the person we want assigned to Will.”

Kade raised her eyebrows—while Abigail Lecter was undoubtably the most low maintenance of the First Family, she was still a demanding piece of shit just like everyone else in her family.

“Sounds a little unorthodox. May I send over a list of questions you should ask them?” she recommended, keeping her voice level and withholding the disgust that she was already dealing with this at dawn. 

“Thank you,” the First Lady said appreciatively.

She fought the instinct to roll her eyes. “I’ll have the list sent to you by the end of the day.”

“I need it by eight,” the First Lady corrected.

Kade looked at the clock. That was only two hours away.

“I can do that, too,” she replied, getting off the bed to grab the clothes she’d laid out on the armchair by the en suite. 

The First Lady was gracious as always. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your cooperation.”

“I’m here to help,” Kade agreed, just thankful that at least one member of the First Family was willing to go through proper channels to get what they needed, even if Kade wasn’t in charge of that particular aspect of the Secret Service. 

“Goodbye, Agent Purnell.”

“Goodbye, First Lady.” Kade ended the call and then looked up to the Vice President. “Your niece wants a new senior agent for Will Graham.”

As Kade began to dress, the other woman made an offer. “Let me give you a list of all my favourites.”

Kade snorted, as if she would entertain such a thought. “I can take care of this, Bedelia.”

“I’d like someone with my interests involved.”

Of  _course_  she did. Kade did roll her eyes at this point as she bent over to slip on her shoes.

“Fine, you can give me your list and I’ll take it into consideration. I’ve got to go.”

*****///*****


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Feb 18-21, 2014

Abigail was greeted at the side entrance of the White House by Abel and the two dogs; she’d forgotten about him entirely since arriving at the hospital last night and hoped he didn’t realise it.

“Abigail!” he declared loudly, holding out his arms for her.

“Uncle Abel!” she said, moving into his embrace. Winston and Applesauce were both on their leashes and the twisted around her legs excitedly. “I’m so sorry—you must have been so bored.”

“Hardly. I’ve been caring for your dogs and I spent a good many hours watching television. I know how to keep myself entertained.” He held onto her shoulders with his hands and studied her face. “How is your Will Graham?”

She grinned, so proud of her Will. “He’s alive and well. He had to get emergency surgery at Bethesda, but he’s going to recover.”

Abel nodded. “And your father?”

“Daddy’s good.”

“We’re prepared for Mr Graham’s arrival?”

“I think so.” 

He looked a shade more affectionate. “And you?”

“I’m great.”

“If you need to cry, you’re allowed.”

Abigail found that she didn’t need to cry now that she was expected to, but was always happy to give a performance, so she allowed her lower lip to tremble as she mustered up some tears for him to see. He smiled and pulled her into an embrace again, making a big production of comforting her. 

Once they finally pulled apart, they made small talk as theywent upstairs to the Residence; Georgia trailed behind them quietly and the dogs hurried ahead of them with their tails wagging. The Residence had more cleaners than usual, all preparing the living area for Will, whenever he was allowed to come home. 

She looked at Abel. “I have to pack a suitcase to take back with me—will you help?

“Abbs, what do you want me to do?” Georgia asked, hesitating to go into the President’s bedroom.

“Will you order breakfast for me from the kitchens? And could you pick out some clothes for me to change into?”

She pulled out her phone and began to text the kitchens. “What do you want to wear?”

“I don’t care, you can choose.”

Georgia looked worried. “I don’t want to pick the wrong thing.”

“There’s no wrong answer. Just pick whatever,” Abigail said, wishing that her assistant would just  _do_  and not  _think_. 

Georgia nodded, still not seeming very confident, but left and Abigail tried not to show any annoyance—this morning wasn’t about her, it was about her family. 

“Okay, I need some clothes for Will when he gets brought back here,” she said, looking to Abel.

“When will that be?”

“Hopefully tonight, maybe tomorrow. He’s in a medicated sleep,” she told him. 

“Right. The way they treat rabies.”

She raised an eyebrow, but the analogy wasn’t wrong. “Exactly. So I need to pick out something comfortable for him. Like his pyjamas…” She frowned. “I don’t know where Daddy would keep them.”

“Perhaps the closet,” he suggested, walking over to it. 

“Would you mind getting two of the overnight bags?” she asked as she listened to him rummaging through the clothing; she wondered how that would make her father feel.

“I doubt he’ll want to wear a suit, but in the event he must hold a press conference, here’s something for him to change into,” Abel said as he returned with a jacket and matching trousers, shirt, and tie, balancing them on the two leather overnight bags. 

She nodded her approval of the clothing and he went back to the closet to retrieve something more casual or find the pyjamas she’d requested; folding suits and not keeping them in a garment bag was risky business, but she felt it was important to sacrifice the proper order of things to keep travel light. Abel returned a few minutes later with a khaki merino wool sweater, casual loafers, and a few pairs of socks, and she bit back a laugh as he tried to keep it hidden from her that he had also selected underwear to sneak into the bag he was packing; modesty was something she lacked and it never ceased to fascinate her that people thought something as basic as under clothing would offend her delicate senses. 

“We should probably get a robe for Will.” She still had Will’s in her bedroom and didn’t feel like parting with it yet; besides, Will might like having something that smelt like her father to comfort him.

He put a hand out to stop her from leaving the bed. “I’ll grab it.” He looked embarrassed.“Your father has something in the closet I’m not sure he’d like you to see.”

“Oh.” Abigail didn’t argue. Careful to wait a few minutes browsing through her father’s collection of books by the fireplace, she selected a book on fly fishing from shelves. “I think he’d like this. And I’ll need to bring some towels.”

“Towels?”

“He was filthy. He’ll have to wash up before he’s brought over—he’ll be too tired to do it here.” She set the book in the overnight bag. “Could you go to the bathroom and grab a few?”

He nodded and left the bedroom, giving her the opportunity to hurry over to the closet to look inside—the Lady and the Goose painting, suits, shoes, a small valet tray with a pair of cufflinks and watch set out to appear casual. Nothing seemed out of place, but she’d have to do a better inspection later this evening. If her father was hiding something from her, it was only fair that she find out.

She shut the door again and quickly made her way back to the bed to resume packing before Abel could catch her. He returned with two bath towels, a few hand towels, a stack of wash clothes and a bath mat; she rolled them so that they were more compact and set them in the second overnight bag. 

Once those were packed, she requested he retrieve the bag of toiletries stashed in the bottom centre drawer of the bathroom’s vanity and she added that bag to the luggage. There. Two overnight bags weren’t too much, both small and containing only the essentials of luxury.

The door to the bedroom opened again and Georgia stood with a grey skirt, a cream-coloured blouse, and navy sweater.

“Abigail?”

Abigail turned to Abel, who’d just returned to the room, for approval of the clothing. “Uncle Abel?”

“Put her in something pink. Mr Graham will want to see something cheerful when he wakes up,” Abel said quickly, dismissing the clothing with a flick of his hand.

“Right.”

Georgia turned around and left doorway, and Abel glanced up at her. 

“You need to curl your hair, put it in a ponytail. Mr Graham will want to see his  _daughter_ , not the First Lady.”

“Ponytails give me a headache and I don’t know how to curl my hair.” The first part was a lie, but the second part was true—her father was the only one allowed to do anything different to her hair that wasn’t the plain straight style she’d been wearing for the better part of a decade. 

Abel made a small scoffing noise, but didn’t argue further.

“His slippers?” Abel pointed down to a pair by the foot of the bed.

“Those are Daddy’s.” She gave the room another cursory glance. “I’m going to bring him the throw off the bed…”

There was a knock at the bedroom door and she went to answer it, finding Sutcliffe with a paper cup of coffee in his hand. “I just heard—is it true?”

“Yes. Will’s back.”

He nodded. “And Hannibal?”

“He did the surgery. He’s with Will right now.”

“Is he okay?” Sutcliffe looked past her and to Abel, gave a very uncomfortable, “Oh, hello.”

“Dr Sutcliffe,” Abel said with cool regard.

Abigail shifted her weight to move in front of Abel once more, wanting Sutcliffe’s attention on her. “Daddy’s fine. I’m bringing he and Will clean clothes.”

Suttcliffe looked at the clothes in her hand. “Did Graham forget those when he quit?”

“Probably,” she said with a smile and shrug. 

Thankfully, Will’s prior position as an assistant meant it wasn’t unusual that he had changes of clothes on site. 

Suttcliffe lowered his voice and looked at her intently. “Are  _you_  okay?”

“I am. Thank you for asking.”

“The First Lady should get back to her task at the moment. To help President Lecter,” Uncle Abel said loudly from the bed, where he had remained to pack. 

“Right.” Sutcliffe placed his hand on her forearm gently for a second. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He left and she watched him walking down the hallway for a few seconds before shutting the door and returning to her work.

“Well, he’s a charmer,” Abel said disdainfully. 

Abigail smirked as she continued packing.

“Abigail, I don’t want you to involve yourself with him.”

She wanted to laugh at the overall wickedness of the long term game in play. “It’s too late for that.”

“It’s not. I don’t want you to get hurt,” he insisted. 

“When this ends, it’s not going to be me who’s hurt, Uncle Abel,” she promised, wanting to put him at ease.

But he didn’t seem happy with it, looking troubled. “You don’t have to…” he sighed. “There has to be another way to get what you want.”

“I’m sure there is, but I like how this one’s plot line works out.”

Abel made a face, but said nothing more, simply keeping his eyes on the clothes he was folding. 

“Don’t worry about me.” She touched his hand. “I’m playing my cards close to my chest.”

“You’re taking a risk. And it’s breaking my heart.”

*****

Will shifted and stretch his stiff limbs, eyelids sticky and clumped together at the eyelashes. He was warm and comfortable, which seemed different, seemed familiar. Something moved near him and he sighed, his mind too foggy to consider that there might be danger nearby.

“I’m going to take the tube out of your nose, Will.”

Hannibal’s voice. 

Will felt better immediately, though he began to choke slightly at the feeling of the tube being removed from his body being pulled out of his right nostril. Choking felt strange, as though his head weighed fifty pounds and it was created of puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But then the discomfort ended and he sighed again at the new and more natural feel of swallowing. He felt relaxed and began to drift off again, so tired.

“Will?”

Will opened his eyes and there stood Hannibal; it took a moment for Will’s eyes to focus, but when he did, he gave the other man an exhausted smile. Hannibal smiled in return, reaching down to touch Will’s forehead. Attempting to talk was difficult and his tongue felt swollen and spongy, so he communicated his desire to sit up by weakly pushing his arms against the bed he lie on. 

“Do you wish to sit up, Will?” Hannibal asked him, his voice soft.

Will smiled again and the other man assisted in sitting up; he hadn’t been expecting the amount of tubes and wires attached to his arms and chest, nor the light material of the hospital gown he’d been dressed in. Hannibal came to sit on the edge of the bed and navigating the tangle of tubes and wires attached to him, pulled Will into his arms. 

Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s waist, unable to lift them much higher. He let out another small sigh as the other man’s hands began to stroke up and down his back, broad palms warm and gentle. Will’s nostrils were filled with the scent of medical disinfectant and inhaling deep through his nose was painful, like being hit in the head with a sledgehammer, but he imagined he could smell the other man’s aftershave and rest his cheek on Hannibal’s shoulder, humming softly. 

Hannibal’s right hand slipped through the side of the gown and Will gasped as much as his mouth would allow. Oh, he’d thought he’d never get to feel this again. His hands gripped at Hannibal much tighter, thinking how sinfully good it felt to have the skin on skin contact, breathing the warmth of his surroundings. Hannibal’s fingers grazed the small of his back and he flinched slightly at the memory of how the last time they’d been alone in a hospital room, Hannibal had taken advantage of his weakened state. But Hannibal’s fingers did nothing more than stroke his skin gently, back and forth in a soothing way.

“I’ve missed you greatly,” Hannibal murmured his ear and Will closed his eyes. 

He became aware of the steady beeping of a heart monitor—that was his heart they were listening to. Like a metronome. Like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth…

He wasn’t sure how long he slept in Hannibal’s arms—minutes, seconds—but he woke when something metal pinched inside his mouth. Were his jaws wired? When he lifted his head, he saw that his mouth had left a small pink patch on Hannibal’s shirt and he frowned. Was there blood in his saliva?

“You need to be bathed,” Hannibal commented, his hand leaving Will’s back to pet at his head. “There is a shower in the bathroom across from your bed. Shall I take you to it?” 

Will nodded his head, still under the haze of morphine. Hannibal placed a small kiss on Will’s cheek before removing himself from the bed and the tubing.

“I am going to disconnect your catheter, Will. Why don’t you lie back and relax?”

Will didn’t immediately panic, as it didn’t register with him what Hannibal was saying, but he immediate discomfort made him squirm against the bed. It was over momentarily, but his heart monitor had picked up its pace, revealing his distress loudly to the room.

“Shh,” Hannibal soothed. “The worst of it is over.”

Hannibal began to remove the small wires attached to his fingers and chest the tubes sticking into his arms; Will stared at the ceiling of the dark room, his heartbeat returning to normal. Then Hannibal helped him off the bed and with an arm securely around Will’s waist, they began the slow walk to the room’s bathroom. Will wished he was able to rest half way across the hospital room, even though he knew that the distance was only a matter of feet, but he’d never been so tired in his life trying to move. 

The bathroom was bright and he faltered, trying to cover his eyes. He’d not been around anything so bright in so long and it was overwhelming. But he was able to adjust somewhat as Hannibal locked the small door behind them; Will glanced over to the sink and saw that the mirror above had been covered over with one of towels he immediately recognised from Hannibal’s bathroom. It was surprisingly comforting to see something so familiar here in this hospital, a small detail that reminded him that this real, that he was close to the world he’d missed so much. 

“I’m going to remove your gown, Will. Hold onto my arm for support.”

Hannibal undid the ties on the side of the gown and it fell open; Will allowed Hannibal to pull it off his body with care and then held onto Hannibal’s hips as Hannibal folded it and set it on the sink.

“I shall remove your dressings—I do not wish for them to get wet.”

Will didn’t understand what he meant until Hannibal began to pull pieces of tape and thick pads of gauze off the left side of Will’s face. There had been bandages and he realised in hindsight that part of the gauze had been visible—he’d just not paid attention to it. There was coolness to his face and he frowned, trying to reach up to touch, but Hannibal blocked his hands from touching and directed him instead to the shower on the back of the wall. 

There was a white plastic shower seat and Hannibal had set a folded soft towel on top; Will was sore everywhere, feeling like he’d been hit by a bus and he clung to Hannibal as he was helped onto the seat, grabbing onto the safety handrail attached to the wall. He was already exhausted and sitting down helped, but being upright was tiring as well; he hunched over, his posture terrible from lack of muscle use and he closed his eyes for just a moment…

“Will?”

Will sat back up, his eyes fluttering open. 

“Will, tell me if the water is too hot.”

Will shook his head slightly, trying not to slump against the shower wall; he wanted to fall asleep, thinking that being upright, and all of the looking and seeing he had to do was too much, too draining. Hannibal held the hand attachment for the shower and kneeling down close enough not to get his slacks wet, began to rinse the water against Will’s bare toes. Will wiggled them slightly and nodded his approval of the temperature; he rest a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, wanted that bit of physical contact he could associate as only for his comfort. 

Hannibal held a bottle of something that looked expensive, some sort of shower gel so that washing him was easier; with a wash cloth that was white and fluffy, he began to clean Will’s feet and ankles. Will’s hand rose from Hannibal’s shoulder to tangle itself in his hair, a feeling he hadn’t realised he’d missed until now. 

Hannibal’s hands moved up to wash Will’s legs, scrubbing softly with the wash cloth. Will closed his eyes again, one hand on Hannibal, the other on the shower’s safety rail; his mind drifted from thought to thought almost at random—snippets of Hannibal pitching a baseball, Abigail eating chocolate cake on his back porch, the Vice President sneering at the stuffed bell peppers he’d cooked, his dogs running up to greet him after a long day at work. When he was finished getting cleaned, he’d go straight to bed and ignore the boat motor he wanted to finish fixing. Maybe have a bottle of the cheap beer he kept stocked in the fridge. Open up the windows to listen to the crickets chirping in the field below. The night that he’d first been with Hannibal, they’d had dinner in the White House greenhouse and he’d listened to the crickets and cicadas then. Perhaps he could invite Hannibal over to spend the night, if he wasn’t too busy with foreign and domestic matters.

Will opened his eyes and tried to ask Hannibal if he wanted to stay the night in Wolf Trap with him, but his tongue still felt odd and his mouth didn’t seem to want to move. Hannibal was washing his chest and stomach now; the water circling the shower drain was turning a strange murky brown and he frowned, reminded of tobacco spit. How had he gotten so dirty?

“I’m going to rinse your hair out. Absolutely filthy,” Hannibal declared, but there was no judgement in his voice, simply an observation.

His head was tilted back and he fought back the quelling nausea of the memories of being waterboarded—at least he knew Hannibal would never do that to him. The water was warm and Hannibal gently poured a handful over his scalp to wet it, his chin cupped to support him. Will closed his eyes and soothed by the consistency of the shower water, let his mind drift.

He saw himself standing from the shower and walking out naked into his bedroom. The dogs were lying around his bed and he found the night shirt and shorts he wore to sleep; the digital alarm clock on his nightstand was blinking 12:00 which made him wonder if there had been a power outage at some point and the clock had defaulted back to its factory settings. He watched the blinking light for a moment then moved to the bed, dressing in the clothes. The dogs watched him curiously from the floor and he stepped over to the bedroom window that overlooked the driveway. The ground had shallow puddles of water scattered everywhere and he wondered if it had rained at some point, surprised he hadn’t noticed. His skin felt cool and he wished he’d put on a sweatshirt or maybe a flannel shirt. He stared at the tree line for a while, searching for something or anything. The forest surrounding his property seemed still and quiet, and his hands itched to hold a gun.  

“Will.”

He opened his eyes again to see Hannibal standing over him.

“You fell asleep.” Hannibal smiled and gently cupped Will’s cheek. “I think you’ve lost about a pound of oil and grime.

He was fully clean now and he was relieved that the film of filth that had covered him was no longer there. Will tried to stand on his own, but ended up reaching for Hannibal to help him stand; he was immediately wrapped in a fluffy white towel and Hannibal’s hands began to briskly dry him with it. He swayed along with the movement, exhaling loudly through his nose. Belatedly, he recalled the beard that had started to grow during his time away and getting Hannibal’s attention, he was tapping his face on the side, trying to indicate he wanted a shave.

“What is it, love?” he asked in the most gentle, tender tone that Will had ever heard in his life.

“A shave?” Hannibal’s eyes roamed Will’s face. “The logistics will be tricky. And I’m certain the hospital will be very upset with me.”

Will let out a soft hum, resting his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Close your eyes and relax. I will not hurt you.”

Will felt the tears sliding down his face unbidden. How ridiculous. Hannibal had only ever hurt him.

Hannibal brushed away the tears on Will’s cheeks, pressing a small kiss to Will’s right cheek. “Would you rather wait, Will?”

Will frowned, almost shaking his head. He didn’t mind the usual scruff he allowed to grow on his face, but hated having an unkempt beard on his face. 

“Very well, darling.”

Will fell asleep standing there in Hannibal’s arms, partially propped up against the bathroom’s sink as a shaving kit was retrieved; distantly, he could feel his face being touched by something wet and cool. Was one of the dogs licking his face? No, that didn’t seem right. He just wanted to be left alone so that he could keep sleeping. Finally irritated enough to open his eyes to shoo the dog away, he found Hannibal rinsing out a disposable razor. 

Hannibal brought Will’s hand up so that his fingers could feel the newly smooth skin on the right side of his face. 

“Better?”

Will nodded, a drowsy, his smile medically doped and causing his face to feel strange and tight. His throat was dry and he tipped his head to rest against Hannibal again.

“I believe it is time for you to return to bed,” Hannibal murmured against Will’s hair. “And I shall stay right there at your side.”

Hannibal retrieved the hospital gown and dressed Will in it once more, carefully tying the small cloth ties on the shoulder so that the back was entirely closed. Will appreciated Hannibal’s consideration for his modesty, his mind sluggishly trying to consider exactly how many people at this hospital had seen him naked as they inspected him for any damage. He’d have been taken to Bethesda, the Navy hospital that was reserved to treat Hannibal, as it would have high security, was close to the White House, and the best medical treatment possible at short notice. There was a possibility that they were at Hannibal’s old alma mater, John Hopkins, but he was willing to put money on Bethesda. 

As he shuffled his feet towards the hospital bed, he wondered how long he’d been here at this hospital after being recovered. Hours? Days? How on earth had he been able to take on his captors when he’d been reduced to someone who could hardly move or stand on his own? 

“You must be strong, Will. Once you reach the bed, you may rest,” Hannibal reminded him as Will’s steps faltered from exhaustion. 

He thought distantly that Hannibal was strong enough to move bodies of adult men and Will’s would pose no challenge to him; and sure enough, Hannibal scooped him up in his arms to lift him into the bed. He was carefully laid out and then covered with the warm bed sheet and blanket.

“Are you comfortable?”

Will nodded his head the best he could.

“Will, do you know why you are here?”

Will nodded again. He’d been hurt…

“Good. You are currently at Bethesda, where you were flown for surgery—they wished to have you treated at the Naval base in Marathon, but I insisted that you were brought here for security reasons.” Will sighed, knowing his first suspicion had been right. “You suffered extensive injuries to the left side of your face and time will tell if there was permanent nerve or muscle damage—“ 

Will had a sudden image flash through his mind of Dolarhyde over him with the ka-bar knife and he heard his heart rate jump at the sudden rush of adrenaline. There had been bandages on his face and Hannibal had covered the bathroom mirror—

“—appear to have lost a fingernail and once the infection in your body is cleared, perhaps it will grow back. And if it doesn’t, then you will be left with minimal scarring. I hadn’t noticed damage to the nail bed, but only time will tell. The blood panels I had run show that you are anemic and severely malnourished, which is no surprise. Bone density loss, muscle loss, osteoporosis is a very real likelihood…”

Will liked hearing Hannibal give a complete inventory of his body and tried not to fall asleep as he listened to the long list of complications and concerns Hannibal listed absolutely void of any emotion. The other man was a blank slate, meaning Will wasn’t forced to shoulder someone else’s pain or fear. 

“You have also lost two of your teeth. They are currently being kept as evidence at the FBI headquarters; I shall have them released to your custody soon—I believe Abigail wishes to put them alongside her milk teeth I’ve kept. A dental surgeon has made casts of the teeth to create dental implants—good as new.” Will remembered vaguely that yes, he’d lost two teeth, but he’d not known they’d been sent to Hannibal. “You have lost thirty-six pounds since you have come home. Abigail is concerned for you. And so am I.” Hannibal’s hand closed over Will’s.“You shall be put into a medicated sleep for the next five days and given an aggressive antiviral and steroid therapy to combat the encephalitis, darling. If there is anything you need to tell me before we see one another again, now is the time.”

Hannibal produced a small white board and dry erase marker from the small stand beside Will’s bed and placed the white board on the flat of the bed, the marker opened and in Will’s hand.

//DOLERHIDE// he wrote. 

“This is a name?”

Will started to nod then let out a muffled noise at the pain of moving his head. It seemed his pain medication was starting to wear off and hopefully Hannibal would reattach the IV drip soon. 

“Is this the name of the man who had you or one of the men who was working with him?”

Will drew a check mark, hoping that Hannibal understood that it meant the former.

“I shall pass the information along. Was this how he chose to spell his name?”

//I don’t know//

“Thank you, Will.”

//Abigail//

“She has missed you very much, Will. She wants her papa home.”

Will’s heart clenched at the memory of when he’d first let that name slip, a moment when he’d hoped she would think of him as her father. And now he knew for certain that she’d called him that, that she’d shared it with Hannibal, and that he truly meant something to her.

//I missed her too//

Beneath that he added, //where is she//

“She is at the White House. She’s safe, Will.”

Will wished he could see her, but was also relieved to know she was at the fortress-like White House, where she’d be protected at all times. 

When he’d been first diagnosed with encephalitis last year, he’d been put on bed rest for an entire week at a private clinic where he’d been rehydrated and given antiviral and steroid treatment, but being put under to fight it made it more clear to Will exactly how dire the situation was. Was his body simply too weak to fight it while maintaining a cognitive state? Had the encephalitis advanced to such an unmanageable state that a coma was the best idea? 

Hannibal’s hand squeezed his. “What were you trying to say to me while you were being wheeled into surgery? Do you remember?”

Will thought for a moment, trying to put the sequence of events in order. //I thought we were singing a david bowie song// He added, //Strangers when we meet//

Hannibal looked surprised, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “I see. I must confess I am not immediately familiar with it.”

//It’s about 2 people who were once in love rediscovering the relationship//

“How apropos.” Hannibal pet his head, fingers working through the damp curls. “When you wake next, you will be in the White House.”

//I love you// Will wrote.

“And I love you,” Hannibal murmured, a very pleased smile on his lips as he brought Will’s hand up to kiss it once more. 

As Will drifted back into sleep, he held Hannibal’s hand as tightly as he could, wanting to maintain that anchoring feeling of touch for as long as possible.

*****

Hannibal had changed into the new clothing Abigail had brought back to Bethesda for him, having taken a quick shower in the bathroom adjoining Will’s room to freshen up; while Hannibal didn’t make a habit of showers in strange facilities, he did find that the medical facility was up to his very strict standards of cleanliness. That came as a relief due to the fact this was the facility he would have to use should he require medical attention he couldn’t see to himself.

At the moment, he’d left Abigail alone in the room with Will and he was making his way to the front of the hospital for the press conference that was to be held. He wondered what the nation would say when they learned that he had assisted in surgery; there would be those who would vote for him again in 2016 simply based on the romantisised notion that he was a man who rushed into action, his being centred around compassion. There would be some that would question the reason the President wasn’t allowing professionals to handle a job he’d abandoned ten years earlier. It didn’t matter to him either way—he was just pleased to have the eyes of the nation on him, on the triumph of Will Graham’s return. 

By his side, Miss Mapp answered the phone quietly and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause and mute the call.

“Mr President? Mr Graham’s mom is on the line.”

He doubted that Agent Perlman had called Will’s mother to inform her of the developments in the situation and that she’d contacted the White House to speak to him. Under normal circumstances, a civilian would not have such ready access to him, but whomever she’d reached at the White House switchboards had entered Ms Jusko’s calling number into the phone database and seen that it was in fact her, and had then—with all good intentions—forwarded the call to Hannibal’s direct line. He would be certain to have that person fired. 

“Thank you, Miss Mapp.” He accept the phone and took the call off mute. “Hello, Ms Jusko. How are you this morning?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I was just calling…” she was hesitant and Hannibal wished to have this conversation face to face with her, simply to see the range of her emotions. “To say that I’m glad Will was found.”

“Thank you.” His neutrality would prompt her further discomfort and after a pause in breath, she began to talk again.

“I…don’t think he wants to see me, but if he does or if he needs anything, please let me know. I, uh…is he okay? The news said that there were rumours he’d been badly injured. I don’t know if he’s going to need…I don’t know, anything from someone biologically related, but if he does, we’re all ready to get tested to see if we’re a match to him. My family, I mean. His family. You just have to ask and we’ll be on the first plane over.”

Hannibal didn’t have access to media at the moment and Jack was censoring most of the information reaching him, so he could only wonder what story was being circulated. Abigail had been unable to sneak his iPad to him and Miss Mapp had been carefully holding onto both his personal and direct lines to field the nonstop calls he’d been receiving from various extended family members and acquaintances.  

“That is very generous of you, Ms Jusko. But it won’t be necessary. I am afraid it would violate doctor-patient privilege to discuss his medical needs at the moment—“

“Oh, sorry.” 

“But he will not require any form of transplant.” Hannibal could only imagine Will’s discomfort at the thought of being indebted to his mother’s side of the family. “I shall be certain to pass along the well wishes to his recovery. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank you for taking care of him.”

Hannibal nearly smiled. “It is my pleasure, Ms Jusko.”

*****

The impromptu casting call for Will’s next senior agent was easily the largest responsibility Abigail had ever had as First Lady; Uncle Abel sat with her in the conference room as she conducted the interviews, quietly taking notes and occasionally asking follow-up questions to the ones Agent Purnell had sent over to her office. 

Not that she was following the questions entirely. This was where her own gut instinct mattered most. She didn’t want someone who would be dismissive of Will, as many of the staffers had been during his brief time as personal assistant. She wanted someone willing to die for Will, someone who wouldn’t stifle him and respect his boundaries—and for that matter, someone who would respect the boundaries she and her father had for Will, too. Will’s personality wasn’t compatible with most people and certainly not the type of people who normally became agents: extroverts, go-getters, type As. If she could place Margot Verger as Will’s senior agent, she would, but in the event the woman was truly colluding with her brother, she wanted him as far away from the Vergers as possible.

“Did you like her?” Abel asked her after the third to last agent they’d interviewed left the conference room. 

“Yes, but not for Will. Might have her added to the top of the list for Daddy’s agents. A little too expressive for Will’s tastes.” 

“So, ‘no’?”

She nodded her head.

“There are two more, Abigail,” Mrs Madchen told her from the open door and Georgia leaned in as well. 

“And there was a call from Governor Budge.”

“Please get the Governor on the phone.” Abigail turned to look at Abel. “Why don’t you take Applesauce and Winston out for a minute while I take this call?”

“Of course.”

She smiled in appreciation and squeezed his hand, hoping that would be enough to keep him from feeling as though he’d been demoted to an errand runner. It was a cold and wet day, so she had to assume he wouldn’t wander too far or for long. He left, shooing the two dogs out with him, and when he was gone, her assistant leaned back into the room again. 

“He’s on the line,” Georgia said with a smile and Abigail nodded, picking up the phone from the centre of the conference table. 

“Good afternoon, Governor Budge,” she greeted, glad for the privacy so that no one would see how large her smile was. 

“Good afternoon, First Lady. I’ve heard the good news and I thought I’d remind you that I owe you champagne still.”

She smiled, wondering if they could have it in the same office where her father had found him in the process of dealing with a dead body. 

“What a wonderful way to celebrate Will’s return,” she said in reply.“Shall I have my office get in contact with yours to pick a day?”

“You don’t have your schedule memorised?” he asked, a teasing tone in his voice. 

“I’m a very busy person and sneaking out to do things takes a bit of coordination,” she said in all seriousness. 

“They’ve clipped your wings.”

“At least feathers grow back.”

“At the risk of exhausting the metaphor, shall like-minded birds of a feather flock together this week?”

“Yes, I think they should.” She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, picking a day and time at random. “Would the day after tomorrow work for you? At nine, if that’s not too late for you?”

“That would do well for me.” There was a smile in his tone. “I shall see you then, Abigail.”

 

“With pleasure, Governor.” She wasn’t ready to take the leap of being informal with his name quite yet.

The call ended, she smiled and glanced down at the name of the agent next on the list, then went to the door, opening it slightly to get the attention of Mrs Madchen. 

“Send in Agent Brauer, please,” she instructed, motioning for Abel to hurry back to the room.

He slipped in right before the agent and took his seat beside hers once more.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted the man, their handshake firm. “If you’ll take a seat.”

“Thanks.”

While she would normally offer someone something to drink, she knew that he would have been offered water or coffee while he waited in her office. And honestly, she felt like she was working against some unspoken deadline—there was a good chance that Will would be home tonight and she had every intention of making sure that he’d have his new senior agent at that point. 

“So, I’ve looked over your file—it’s very interesting. You’re a former lawyer?” she asked. 

“I am. I studied law at Harvard, took my Bar exam and passed, then joined the Navy. Wanted to become a JAG officer, but then I got the opportunity to come work here and I took it.”

“Brains and brawn is exactly what I require for my father Will.” She folded her hands neatly on the table. “Are you interested in the job?”

“Hands down.”

Under normal circumstances, she would try to play with the situation with care and poise, but right now was more beneficial to be blunt, to watch reactions and to assert it clearly to anyone who might question her role here in the White House. She was not a child, and as an extension of her father’s office, she considered herself equal to his position when he wasn’t there. Subtlety didn’t match the type of power she was wielding.

“I won’t accept anyone less than the best for him. I mourn with the Secret Service for the four agents who died protecting him, but now I require a senior agent who’s twice as good as the agents that came before.”

“It was Agent Brown’s first time as a companion agent. Should have gone with a more seasoned agent to head up Graham’s detail for security planning,” he observed and she nodded, as though she had reached the same conclusion. 

“You were one of Judge Breyer’s agents from 1994 to 2002, when you were reassigned due to injury in the line of duty.”

“Right.”

“And you’re willing to take a bullet again?” She felt her stomach clench at the thought of someone flinching at the sight of danger.

“Absolutely. This job is my  _life_ ,” he said with absolute conviction. “It’s my calling.”

He was the first agent who seemed relaxed in this room and Abigail liked that; if Will’s empathy was a real thing, she didn’t want anyone high strung or in a mood that would aggravate him. Someone calm and collected and witty. 

“Will Graham is my father and while I don’t mind his personality, I do know that other agents found him ‘abrasive’.”

He held up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “Trust me, I’ve worked my share of assholes in this field and Graham isn’t anywhere near the top ten of the worst of them. He needs someone who’s only got his best interests at heart and his safety at the forefront of their thoughts. I’m not looking to be his best friend, I’m not looking to improve him as human being, I’m going to be here to keep him alive and keep him safe. I’ll die for him if that’s what it takes.” Brauer gave her a cocky smile. “I’m enough agent to handle someone who doesn’t think I’m funny.”

“Good to know.” She couldn’t help but smile. “Will is not going to want anyone patronising of his intelligence or his ‘attitude’. He won’t want to be forced to socialise, but he’s not going to want to feel like he’s got a babysitter with him, either. He found it frustrating to have someone looking over his shoulder all the time.”

He shrugged—not dismissive of what she’d told him, but self-confident enough that he wasn’t offended he might not be Will’s ‘type’. “Give me a trial run with him. If he hates me, there are other agents to replace me with. Hell, you could even consider someone from your dad’s detail to be upgraded to his senior agent.” 

While she’d ignored the questions Agent Purnell had sent her, she felt as though her years of observing others in the way a good hunter should was enough to tell her she’d found someone she liked. And if her father didn’t care for him, then someone else from the list could be considered. 

“The trial run starts now. I’ll have Barney inform the Uniformed Division.”

He nodded and then asked in a cautious tone, “Have you told Brown about this yet?”

“No. But I’ll have him informed shortly.”

He stood and extended his hand again, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Pleasure meeting you, First Lady.”

She stood as well, slipping her hand into his. “The pleasure is all mine, Agent Brauer.”

*****

Abel stood outside the Lincoln bedroom, demanding access to Abigail, who had taken the day off work to stay with the recovering Mr Graham, who’d been brought to the White House late the night before. “I want to talk with the First Lady.”

The man—whom Abel vaguely recognised as one of Graham’s—wouldn’t move from the front of the door. “I need to get permission to let you in.”

“I’m not here to stab him to death—I want to give her the new speeches for her visit to Nevada. Let me in,” Abel snapped, absolutely  _through_  with this ridiculous charade the Secret Service kept playing at.

He’d already informed them when he left the East Wing of his intentions to see her and the fact that he had to wait was insulting. He used to be a lieutenant governor for Christ’s sake! He wasn’t some civilian idiot who didn’t understand protocol—he posed no danger to anyone anymore and he was certain that they understood that, but they wanted to give him a hard time because they just didn’t want him here.

The agent was ignoring him, listening in on his ear piece, before nodding and opening the door for him. Angrily, Abel pushed past him and entered the Lincoln Bedroom, grateful to ditch his detail even for a few minutes. The room’s curtains had been drawn and only a little light was available, everything dusky and comprised of deep shadows. There was a heart monitor beeping a quiet, steady rhythm, and the room had a medicinal smell to it, reminding him very much of the BSHCI, and he swallowed hard; his hands clutched at the file, eyes settling on Abigail, who sat beside the room’s large bed.He hesitated as he allowed his eyes to adjust, suddenly unsure why he hadn’t just asked her to come to the door.

By the windows stood Agent Matthews and another agent who Abel didn’t recognise, but could only assume was there for Graham. They were watching him and he gave them a firm nod of acknowledgment, though didn’t make eye contact. Matthews was intimidating and the agent with him was no different. Abigail looked up from the book she was reading aloud and paused. Abel was very careful not to look at the bed or its occupant, wanting to honour the Lecters’ desire not to have Graham gawked at. He really didn’t want to see him anyway. 

“Hello, Uncle Abel,” she greeted as he came over to her.

The two family dogs were sleeping at her feet and he was careful not to step on them. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Abigail. I needed you to sign off on the changes I made.” He handed the file over her and as he casually glanced over to the chairs by the window, he accidentally made eye contact with Graham’s nurse. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the man responded politely in turn.

She flipped through the pages, studying all the handwritten changes he’d made in the margins and he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to be very interested in the crown moulding along the ceiling. 

“Anything else?” she asked after a minute as she handed the file and pen back to him.

He wanted to tell her that he missed having her in the office, that he had no one to talk to and his lunch had been a sandwich he ate by himself in the conference room.But it was not his place to burden her with his needs. “No. Do you need anything?”

She smiled. “No, thank you.

“What are you reading to him?” he asked curiously.

“‘The Talented Mr Ripley’. The nurse said he might like hearing a familiar voice.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I think I like the books better than the movie. I wasn’t sure if he ever watched it.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” The expansive room with its lack of lighting and dreadful shades of hospital equipment was making him feel claustrophobic and he took a step back. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours. If you’d like, we could have the kitchen bring us ice cream while we review the speeches,” she suggested. 

“I’d like that. I’ll see you then.”

Abigail opened the book again and began reading quietly once more. He could feel the eyes of the agents and the nurse on him still, like hot coals burning through his skin. Abel left the room in a hurry, still avoiding looking at the man in the bed. He’d spent time with his grandmother at a nursing home during her final days and it had been depressing, filled with the same smells and sounds of impending and postponed death. Outside in the hallway, his two escorts stood waiting and gripping his file tight, he began his march back towards the elevator.  

“Left everyone alive and well,” he said snippily to the agents escorting him back to East Wing.

“I get that you don’t like this,” the agent with brown hair started, “but you are a convicted murderer living in very close proximity to the President and considering his safety is the most important thing for us to handle, we can’t take chances.”

“I have been pardoned.” 

“But that doesn’t change what you did. I’m not going to apologise to you for taking the First Lady and the President’s security seriously.”

“It’s very demeaning to be treated as though I want to hurt them. They’re the only family I have left,” Abel reminded him.

“And whose fault is that?”

Abel stopped in his tracks and rounded on the man. “I don’t want you for an agent anymore. I am a guest in this house as you know and I don’t think President Lecter will appreciate knowing that one of his employees has been so rude to me.”

The agent didn’t look phased. “I think you’re absolutely right about that.” He walked over to an agent standing watch in the hallway. “Escort him back to the East Wing—I’m going to be changing shifts.”

“Gotcha.” The other agent traded places and motioned for Abel to start walking.

Abel felt anger boiling in him, but he questioned if it was rational or just a side effect of the medication he was taking, or even if it was just the stress of having a new person in the household. And he couldn’t talk to Hannibal about it, lest he come across as mental unstable—he didn’t think the other man’s charity and compassion would extend to anger issues.

And then there was the issue of the little black book he was keeping on Hannibal’s behalf about Abigail. He’d known years back when Du Maurier had first recruited him that Lecter was a bit of a control freak and while he was sure the man had good intentions on keeping tabs on his daughter, it still felt like a betrayal of trust to the young woman. Abigail was making such an effort to help him rebuild his life, was looking up to him for guidance in shaping her career as a politician.

The right leg of his slacks twisted around his ankle monitor and he hissed in frustration as he paused to fix the cloth; he hated this house, he hated these rules, he hated these people.

_Something_  was going to have to give. 

*****

In the West Wing, Ardelia sat beside the President in the Cabinet Room; three days had passed since Graham had returned to the White House and even if anyone else had been around the President, they might think he was entirely composed during such a tempestuous time at the White House—he maintained his usual schedule of meetings, calls, and paperwork, and made no comments about the man recovering in the Residence. 

But she had noticed that the President was distracted in comparison to his usual demeanour. He called the Residence hourly to check with the private nurse who’d been hired to watch over Graham during the day, creating his own personal log of the man’s condition in a black notebook on his desk. He also spoke with the First Lady frequently to request information and make suggestions about Graham’s care now and in the coming days. Always quiet, always calm, she couldn’t picture herself in his shoes; if something happened to someone she loved, she’d never let this job take her away from them. It was an aspect of the presidency that she couldn’t wrap her head around—sacrificing everything personal for the sake of running the country. He couldn’t call in sick or take a personal day to be with Graham and she felt immediate sympathy for him. 

There were portions of his day during travel or between meetings that needed filler—she could only imagine how strongly he was compelled to dwell on the condition of his boyfriend. She’d heard rumours from various staff members and news outlets of what Graham had gone through the night of his extraction and while she was sure that half of it was full of shit, it all sounded pretty awful—she didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that it wasn’t healthy to keep thinking about those things and so she made it her personal mission to give him a distraction.

Ardelia had spoken to the First Lady earlier that morning to see if she could have permission to take the Chesapeake Ripper files from the Residence to the President in an attempt to give him something else to think about. Honestly, if she knew more about art or music, she’d discuss that instead, but true crime was what ranked highest in the matters of shared interests. Abigail had seemed surprised at her proposal, but then agreed that maybe that would be something he’d enjoy and retrieved the files for her from the family room. 

Relieved that she had the support of his daughter, Ardelia presented him with the files as he made notes in the black notebook.

“I thought you might like to take your mind off Mr Graham. So, I brought these along. And I thought we might discuss them. Unless this is just something between you and him.”

He looked up from the files to her. “Are you interested in the Chesapeake Ripper, Miss Mapp?”

“Uh…maybe not as much as others are. I think my interest in killers is pretty much limited due to the fact that they’re so often glorified. Like how people make fansites for them.” She admitted, “I did a little research before I came in here.”

He gave a nod and opened up the top file, turning it for her to see the photo placed at the top of the report. “This was his most recent.”

She winced, but didn’t look away. “Jeez. Did he stick a cello neck down that man’s throat?”

“Merely into his mouth.” The President glanced back at the image. “It appears he did not have time to bleach and harden the vocal cords to ‘play’, but the message is quite clear.”

“So…did he half-ass it this time or did he just have to work in a really strict time frame?” She’d watched enough crime shows to know where to start asking questions. “Who did he want to see this? Was it a threat?” She considered a broader scope. “Was anyone on the board or in the symphony leaving at that time? Like, this was a message to them?”

“Is that your theory?”

She remembered how he’d genuinely listened to her at the airfield in Pennsylvania and while she was nervous that she really had no idea what she was talking about, she wasn’t about to chicken out. 

“Well, it could be a ‘how could you leave us?’ gesture or ‘you’d better not come back here or this will be you next time’ gesture.” She looked to him for guidance in forming her working theory. “Unless that’s wrong?”

“The current theory that it is a present for someone.”

“Ew. Why would someone do this for a present?”

“Perhaps the intended viewer would see it as art.”

“Well, then they should probably be locked up, too,” she said firmly. “That’s like the kind of person who buys clown paintings by, um, the man who dressed up as a clown to kill people.”

“John Wayne Gacy,” he supplied.

“Right, him.” She shuddered, feeling her throat tighten.

“If this makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to look at it.”

“No…” She swallowed and looked back at the gruesome photo. “No, if you can do it, then I can, too.”

“That’s very brave of you, Miss Mapp.”

She shrugged. “It’s not fair that you have to look at so many awful things. The least I can do is be there with you.”

“That is very considerate of you. Most people would offer me their empty consolations to make themselves feel better about things they perceive as discomforting to me.”

“I try not to be ‘most people’,” she confessed. 

“Very good, Miss Mapp. No one likes a conformist.” His finger tapped the table top lightly. “The Secret Service believes you should have firearm training in light of Will’s recent events. How does that make you feel?”

“Learning how to shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I used to want to be an FBI agent as a kid.” She gave a small smile at how silly that seemed now. 

“What stopped you from pursuing that route? Why go into politics?”

“I thought I could make more of a difference in people’s lives in politics. Better scholarships as a black woman, too.”

“What if you could become an FBI agent?” he posed. “Would you apply for the training?”

“I don’t know if I’m the type they hire,” she admitted, thinking about how skittish she was around guns.

“Surely you are twice as competent as the people they tend to lean towards.”

She knew she was smart, but to have him confirming it felt surreal. “You really think so?”

“I don’t pay empty compliments, Miss Mapp. Would you be interested in changing the course of your career from politics to criminal investigations?”

She had always loved brainstorming situations. “Let’s say hypothetically I wanted to join the FBI. All the classes I’m taking online right now are political science. I would have to completely change all my classes. And soon.”

“I would suggest you research it.” He closed the file as there was a knock on the door from a page. “Perhaps soon you will be ‘Agent Mapp’.”

“And then I could hunt the Chesapeake Ripper for real,” she joked.

And for the first time in a long while, the President grinned. 

*****

Brian saw Freddie this time and he stood his ground as he pumped fuel into his car; he felt like an idiot for letting her catch him a second time at the gas station and vowed never to visit again. He suspected that she wanted information on the hottest story in the nation or was looking for some comment on how he, the man who shot Will Graham, felt about his recovery. 

“Agent Zeller—“ she started.

“No comment, Lounds,” he said loudly, which attracted the attention of a few people filling their cars, too. 

“Was it my information?” she asked. 

He looked at her, confused. “What?”

“Was it my information that helped find Will Graham?”

Oh, right—Abigail had told him that Lounds might contact him with helpful information about Graham’s disappearance and since she seemed to only funnel her facts to the Vice President, he’d forgotten entirely about the matter. 

“No.” 

She made a face. “Damnit.”

“You didn’t offer us anything  _worth_  anything,” he said, feeling a sudden urge to be nasty to her. 

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Oh? I’m sorry—I didn’t realise that being the only person to survive REDDRAGON meant I didn’t have good information.”

“Graham survived,” he pointed out. 

“Not because they wanted him to, from what I’m guessing.”

Brian decided to just get the rest of his gas tomorrow morning before work and put the pump nozzle back in its stand, closing his fuel cap. “What do you  _want_?”

“The President owes me the first exclusive inter—“

Of course—this was all about how it served her. “No, don’t even—“

“He  _does_. Bedelia  _promised_  me,” she insisted. 

He opened his car door. “Then get in contact with her. Goodnight, Ms Lounds.”

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Sentences or words bracketed by “//word//“ reference Will writing down what he wants to say.
> 
> +In case you were wondering what Abel saw in the closet he wanted to keep Abigail from seeing, it was the Leda & the Swan painting, aka, the Lady & the Goose. 
> 
> +Judge Stephen Breyer is one of the nine judges on the Supreme Court of the United States (SCOTUS). He was appointed by Bill Clinton and has served since August 3, 1994
> 
> +the Instagram for the fic is @lecter4president
> 
> +It was supposed to be a short chapter ;__;


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Feb 22 through Feb 26, 2014

 “You are certain of this?” Hannibal asked as he looked over the results of the DNA tests that had been placed before him.

“As close to 100% as we can be,” Agent Perlman said grimly.

Hannibal was not a man who surprised easily, and while he wouldn’t say this was ‘shocking’, it was certainly ‘unexpected’. “What do you believe happened?”

“There was a boat found about forty miles north, which we were able to print and his fingerprints were everywhere.” Perlman presented him with a photo of a small dark green motor boat on the beach. “There was a good amount of blood in the boat, too, which we Quantico run, and it’s his. Matched the sample Graham had on him.” Perlman’s lips became thin in frustration. “A site not far from the boat was located that we think held a cache of supplies he needed to get outta Dodge. We think he tried to sink the boat, but it made it ashore anyway.” He flipped through the file that had been set before Hannibal to the personnel profile tucked in the back. “As you can see from the file on him, he’s highly skilled in survival training; while we’re hoping that he’s died somewhere, there is the possibility he’s been able to perform some serious field medicine to take care of being gutted. He’s smart, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he managed to survive what…” Perlman’s eyes shifted away from his, avoiding saying that Will had nearly disemboweled a man and then removed his kidney—that had ‘officially’ never happened.“Happened to him.”

“So Francis Dolarhyde is still alive.” Hannibal felt a hunger to seek out the man for his own retribution. “He is a more formidable foe than we anticipated, it seems.”

“Mr President, we’re going to get this sonofabitch and fry him,” Perlman promised. “Security for your family and Mr Graham’s property had been bumped up to maximum. All law enforcement in Florida and the surrounding states have been given an APB on him and every TSA officer and airport have been given a warning, too. Borders are being monitored incase he tries to slip into Mexico or Canada.” Perlman looked at him curiously. “Is Graham awake yet?”

“He is not. I shall tell him after he’s rested and when I am certain that he is prepared to hear it.”

Perlman nodded, contemplating something before putting the thought aside and reaching down into his briefcase; he produced a second file and opened it, spinning it around and pushing it across the table to Hannibal. 

“One survivor. Her name is Elaine Frost. She was in Marathon at the time, buying some last minute supplies for REDDRAGON. An order of fast food, some hardware, fifteen gallons of gasoline, Nasonex—there’s a full list on the fifth page—and she ran into the road closure we set up. One of the boys from Marathon PD got suspicious and when she tried to pull a weapon on him, she was apprehended. Former Army, given an honourable discharge four years ago, former Private First Class. Specialty is mechanics. We’ve got her at Forth Worth in the Federal Medical Center.”

“Is she talking or she merely giving her name, rank, and the address of the REDDRAGON’s base in Marathon?” Hannibal looked at her image with interest.

Perlman seemed surprised. “She’s doing exactly that. How did you know?”

“She believes she is a prisoner of war. That is standard protocol for a captured soldier. Though she would normally give the home address of her parents—so her enemies would know where to send her remains. It seems she believes so strongly in the cause that the house they were occupying is where she considers her loyalties still lie.”

“Right.” The next thing he said carefully. “We have interrogators ready, should you wish for us to… _extract_  information from her.”

“You know as well as I that enhanced interrogation yields very few actual results.” But that didn’t mean Hannibal lacked the ability to get what he needed in terms of particulars. “I would like to talk to her.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Hannibal was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, and like with everything, he was calm, but insistent. “I have advantages she doesn’t. Psychological ones. After Will, I am her greatest enemy. What is more undignified than being held prisoner by one’s greatest enemy?”

Perlman was quiet and knew better than to allow the President speak to a member of a terrorist organisation, especially considering he had a personal emotional investment in the legal proceedings against the woman; but Hannibal saw that Perlman’s fight against his better judgement and finally pulled out his cellphone, looking resigned to following Hannibal’s whims. 

“Everything about this is unorthodox. But I know someone at J. Edgar Hoover, DOJ liaison I went to prep school with—he can help me pull a few strings,” he said as he dialed the number.

Hannibal wondered if it was Katz’ influence that Perlman was so loyal to him. “I appreciate it more than you know, Agent Perlman.”

“Not a problem, President Lecter,” Perlman said with a nod as he held the phone to his ear. “Good morning, Bernice—is Paul there?” 

*****

Mason afforded Margot a healthy allowance for anything that involving cosmetic procedures; he liked beauty and she had to admit that she enjoyed the state of youth she’d managed to maintain through genetic luck and very careful plastic surgery. She didn’t care if anyone thought it was vain of her—she looked like she was still in her early thirties and that was more than her coworkers could say for themselves. 

Today she was receiving her routine Botox treatment; fine lines were smoothed out and preemptive strikes against loss of definition were the most important issues to address. The chair she was in had been reclined and there was a soothing ambient music playing in the small room as she maintained the facial expression she needed to get the most effect of the treatment.  

Her phone buzzed in her lap and as she kept her face as frozen as possible, she checked the screen to see who was calling.  

“Mason, I’m getting my face done,” she said softly as she answered the phone. 

“Margot, I want pictures,” he whined.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not allowed in his room.”

“Find a way. Find someone who will take them. What’s the name of his nurse?”

“Mason, I’m not allowed to know those things. They’re concerned there’s a _leak_. If I don’t play it cool, they’re going to know something is up. And we don’t want that, do we?” she reminded.

“Hannibal really thinks someone in the Secret Service is feeding me information?”

“Well, someone is, _right_? Someone who isn’t me?”

“I can’t share that with you, Margot. Mission Control doesn’t need give out the details for this little space walk.”

Margot knew better than to pursue further information and simply hung up her phone, setting it back in her lap, and closed her eyes. She’d been suspicious that Mason had an agent in his pocket, most likely Matthew Brown. He’d been walking around like some little ghoul: keeping to himself and haunting the space around the Lincoln Bedroom’s door. No one had said directly that it was because of Brown’s suspected crush on Graham, but from the looks everyone gave him behind his back, she knew it couldn’t be anything else. 

Now he was lumped into the category she was in: Undesirable. There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that if it wasn’t for Lecter’s own desire to keep her there, she’d have been transferred out of the White House to some senator or congresswoman’s detail so that she’d be away from the tight clique of agents who inhabited the White House’s ecosystem. Brown would find himself somewhere else very soon if someone in the First Family didn’t stand up for him. 

She wouldn’t tell Lecter about her suspicions yet—she still wanted to figure out what game he was playing and holding this information close to her chest might provide her with some leverage later on. 

The doctor returned to the room to ask her how she was and Margot gave answer she’d been giving everyone her whole life:

“I’m fine.”

*****

There was a medical conference in Atlanta that Hannibal was to attend and give a speech about the need for reform in the healthcare community when it came to educating patients on vaccinations for young children; he’d not wanted to leave Will in the event he asked for him, but the price of being President came at the coast of his own personal wants. He was assured at least that Abigail was with him, providing the personal comfort he might require.

Air Force One was flying over the Appalachians when Jack voiced the one topic that Hannibal had been actively avoiding.

“Who are you hiring to act as Will’s psychiatrist?”

“I haven’t decided,” Hannibal replied neutrally, looking at the hard copy of the speech. 

“Should get hoppin’ on that, then,” Jack said, eyes still focused on tablet in his hands.  

“Will is not a fan of psychiatry,” Hannibal informed him. 

Jack had the look on his face that suggested he had something snide to say, but was censoring himself from simply spitting it out. “Well, thank god that’s not up to him. White House employees who undergo duress are required to receive sessions until they’re rubber stamped with the ‘all good’.”

Hannibal felt resentment for the protocol he would have to follow; it would not be possible to deny Will mental health care, unless he were to pay off said psychiatrist, which he didn’t feel comfortable with—any professional willing to take money for that particular scheme was not anyone he could trust around Will in the first place. And he was certain that Will would not agree with that plan either. There was too much interference in his world at the moment and he wasn’t able to make the necessary preparations to have the world operate the way he wanted, which meant for now he would need to actually do the ethically thing and hire the psychiatrist who would see Will. 

He wanted no one else in Will’s head while there was so much use he had for the fractured state it was currently in—now was the time for Hannibal to plant the seeds that would grow into the beautiful feelings of trust and mutual understanding that had existed between them last year. There was also the nasty tinge of jealousy that Hannibal harboured over the idea of someone spending an intimate amount of time evaluating Will and _looking_ at him.

“I shall make arrangements for it,” Hannibal stated and returned his attention to the speech.

There was certainly a loophole somewhere in all of this and Hannibal would find it.

*****

Will stirred awake in the softest surroundings he could ever recall; he blinked as he surveyed the dark room, eyes picking up the faint outlines of furniture, painting frames on the wall, vases full of flowers. Every part of him ached: his head, his mouth, his teeth, his lower back, everything. The room was dim and he was grateful for that; having spent so much time in the absolute dark, he didn’t think his eyes could bear to look through anything brighter. 

The room was familiar, one of the White House’s rooms and judging by the size of the space and the placement of the windows and fireplace, he would guess it was the Lincoln Bedroom. His hand came up to touch at his face—the bandaging was still in place and the other half of him still had the scruff of having not had a shave in a few days. 

He turned his head to the right side of the bed; Hannibal was reclined on the beside him, still dressed and sound asleep. Will reached over, afraid he was dreaming, and placed a hand on Hannibal’s thigh, which stirred the other man awake. Will could only stare at him in wonder, relief and hope filling him all at once. He was truly out of that hell he’d endured.

“How did you sleep?” Hannibal asked, his voice still sleepy. 

Will touched Hannibal’s cheek gently and felt the man smile. 

“Good,” Hannibal murmured, understanding the unsaid words. “I’ve been sedating you so that you don’t dream.”

Will caressed Hannibal’s cheek, filled with gratitude for the other man protecting him from the horrors of his mind. Hannibal took his hand and kissed it gently, every finger, knuckle and palm.

“I love you, Will.”

Will nodded his head.

“Would you like more rest?”

Will paused and looked toward the bathroom; he wanted to be cleaned, still phobic of the grime and filth he’d been subjected to in captivity. He’d never feel truly clean again, too reminded of how lack of hygiene had been used as a tool to dehumanise him, to reduce him to  _nothing_.  

Hannibal touched his hand and Will flinched, broken from his thoughts. “Yes, let me take you there.”

Will nodded and sat up slowly; the room spun momentarily and he considered lying back down from the sudden vertigo, but then everything settled and he focused on Hannibal walking around the side of the bed, pulling back the bed sheet. 

“You’ve been asleep for five days—careful, you are weak.”

This time Will was prepared for the feeling of the catheter being removed and held still, wincing only slightly. His muscles felt watery and unsure, and he didn’t think he had the energy or necessary balance required to walk; he knew that Hannibal knew that he wanted to be carried, but was going to wait for Will to ask, holding his assistance hostage. So Will looked up to him pleadingly and Hannibal gave him a small nod before lifting him and taking him into the bathroom.

The lights were bright and he covered his eyes as Hannibal set him on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Would you like a bath, Will?”

Will considered that for a moment and then gave a long blink to mean ‘yes’. Still groggy, he’d only hoped for a quick rinse off under the shower, but a bath sounded like an impossible luxury.

“I removed your nasogastric tube earlier this evening as I knew you’d wake and not want to feel it taken out,” Hannibal told him as he began to move about the bathroom.

Will was also grateful that a colostomy bag hadn’t been involved either, as a liquid diet had left him with nutrients but an empty stomach. Not that he had any form of appetite with the throbbing nerves of his jaw—it didn’t hurt, but he assumed that was because he’d been doped up to the gills. 

Hannibal placed two large folded towels at the bottom of the tub to act as a cushion and Will smiled as much as he could; the left side of his face still felt tight and his mouth ached when he tried to move his jaw. His fingers reached up to touch at the padded gauze, studying it the best he could simply by feeling it. He gained no new information. 

Hannibal lifted him and then placed him in the tub carefully. Will refused to let go of the other man, enjoying the solid feeling of Hannibal’s muscles beneath his shirt. He tipped his head to rest against Hannibal’s shoulder and he felt the politician settle his weight in the crouching position he was still in. 

Another towel was rolled and placed at the back of the tub for him to rest his head on.

“A moment, sweet boy,” Hannibal said before kissing him on the head and leaving the room. 

Hannibal returned with music on his phone and turned on the water, which began to fill the tub quickly. Steam began to rise and Will watched Hannibal selecting the playlist he wanted to give background noise while they were together. Then a few candles were lit by the sink and Will had to appreciate that Hannibal was attempting to make the situation as pleasant for them both; romance and consideration were two traits Hannibal no doubt prided himself in and when he returned to kneel on the floor once more beside the tub, Will reached out for Hannibal again. He held his hand and simply watched him, unblinking, wanting to convey how relieved he was to be back here with him.

The water was nearly at a stage of being too hot, but as he sank back against the tub, he felt his muscles relax and his core warming; he sighed as the feelings of comfort overwhelmed him. Will allowed Hannibal to lift his leg and scrub at the sole of his foot; Will curled his toes, watching their movement in interest.

“Missed you,” Will said to the best of his ability. 

His tongue still wasn’t cooperating and his words sounded smeared and alien to him. But Hannibal seemed to have no trouble understanding and kissed the top of Will’s foot before continuing to clean him. Hannibal was washing him thoroughly and gently with a thick wash cloth, speaking to him in a one sided conversation about his day. The suds of the soap smelt of lavender and Hannibal mentioned in an off handed way that the soap was imported from France and was made of goat’s milk and Will smiled slightly. Apparently, the soap was superior at moisturising skin and Hannibal clucked his tongue in disapproval at how  _‘delicate’_  his skin was after his hostage situation. It was just a pretentious way of saying  _‘I’m thinking about you’_. Will sighed again and allowed his arms to be lifted as Hannibal scrubbed them clean.

He could feel the washcloth exfoliating his skin and the water was once again losing its milky white appearance from the soap and was turning a grungy, soupy grey. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling of the bathroom; the sloshing of the water reminded him of the strange and terrifying hallucination he’d had of himself and the Vice President under the waters of the bayou.

Finally the washcloth came to rest between his thighs and Will made a low noise of disapproval, but Hannibal continued to clean his body.As Will shifted his mind away from anything but Hannibal’s hand, he turned his head and saw there was still a towel over the mirror. That seemed off to him, but he couldn’t quite place a finger on how it was wrong.

Eventually the water was drained from the tub and Hannibal careful lifted him up, setting him on the edge of the tub, where he dried him with a towel that had been on a heated rack. Skin rosy from the heat, he wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck and closed his eyes, inhaling as his nose rest against the warm shirt collar. When he opened his eyes, he’d been laid out across the bed, still naked. Hannibal was kneeling on the edge of the bed, wearing flannel sleeping pants, his chest bare; he was massaging something slick and nice smelling across Will’s feet and up his ankles, massaging his tired, warm skin. 

“Evian skin cream,” Hannibal told him, his voice sounding as though it was a million miles away.

He drifted in and out of wakefulness as Hannibal’s hands travel his body. Hannibal's hands were firm and confident, covered in the warm lotion or cream or whatever it was that he was using to massage into Will's skin. He finally gave a hiccuping sigh when Hannibal pressed his mouth to Will’s stomach, kissing a trail up across his chest and ending right below his throat. Hannibal hummed softly something that reminded Will of Goldberg Variations. 

He felt good. Like a cloud. A cloud? Did that make sense? His body felt as though it was made of moisture and air. Humidity from the sea. He was a low lying cloud out at sea, the promise of a storm, warm balmy air on the coast.

He could hear thunder rolling, laughter.

“Yes, you are my cloud tonight, William,” the thunder rumbled affectionately. Thunder and clouds belonged together—completely compatible. 

_You smell wonderful._

Will wanted to know if he still smelt of encephalitis.

_Oh darling, yes. It’s everywhere._

Will then wondered if it smelt the way lightning did.

_No my love. It’s far too sweet to be compared to ozone._

Apricots?

 _No_.

Dates?

_No, like something delicious coming out of the oven._

Will shivered and rolled into the warmth of the body next to him. He wanted to protect himself from the belief that he might smell like something someone wanted to eat, but he was already too tired to make too much noise as it was and within seconds, blankets had been pulled up over him.

“My cinnamon roll. My spun sugar,” the storm mocked, teasing him with kisses and teeth along the back of his neck.

Will closed his eyes and hoped sleep would claim him soon. 

*****

Hannibal was in the midst of considering what leftovers to reheat for he and Abigail to have for lunch when he received a call from Bella. 

“Hannibal, I have my replacement in my office at the moment. Would you like to meet her?”

“Of course, Bella. Please, stay where you are. I shall meet you there.”

Hannibal had heard various rumours and suggestions of whom Bella would ultimately make as her final recommendation for new Press Secretary; Bella’s health was reaching the point where it would soon be in a swift decline and she was making as many arrangements as quickly as possible so that when she inevitably succumbed to her cancer, the job she’d held so dear would not suffer for it.

When he arrived at the Press Office, Bella’s secretary opened the door for him, and he nodded and told her ‘thank you’. As he entered the office and the door was shut behind him, Hannibal found that for the second time that week, he was surprised.

“Chiyoh.”

The woman standing by the office’s window looked at him with the sharpest eyes he’d ever beheld.

“Hello, Hannibal,” she greeted neutrally, not making any effort to come over to shake his hand. 

“How are you?” he asked pleasantly; he’d kept tabs on her for decades, but in the recent years had waivered in his attentions.

“I am well and I hope you are the same.”

“I am. Please,” he gestured to the seats Bella had arranged around a low coffee table. 

“I will stand,” she said with controlled casualness.

He sat irregardless of her answer, watching her; to the trained eye, it was easy to see that she was controlling her movements, poised to fight him at any moment if the situation should escalate to that. 

Sakamoto Chiyoh was six years his junior, the daughter of one of Lady Murasaki’s colleagues in New York; she had frequented their apartment when Hannibal was sixteen and preparing for university. His Lady Murasaki had delighted in spending time with the girl, sharing memories of her homeland as they practiced tea ceremonies and discussed finer etiquette. She had been a lovely child, one whose presence he hadn’t minded. 

Hannibal, who had still been in his lady’s good graces at the time, had been invited to join them on their lessons around town—art, dining, music. After his lady had caught him with the butcher, Chiyoh’s attitude towards him changed and he could only assume that Lady Murasaki had warned her not to spend any time with him; when he visited home on the weekends, Chiyoh and his lady would politely avoid him.  

The last time he’d seen her, she’d pushed him off the third story balcony of a country club. It had been the night of her cotillion and she’d requested that he act as her escort to event, which he’d happily complied, never suspecting an ulterior motive. As the night went on, he’d found her on a balcony overlooking the golf course. They’d made small conversation and she’d moved closer to him; he’d known immediately that she was trying to communicate something to him, though at the time, he’d amusingly thought she would try to kiss him. 

Instead she had whispered,  _“I don’t want to kill you,”_  before she’d shoved him over the edge and into the hedges two stories below. He’d sprained his right wrist and hurt his shoulder enough that he’d had to wear a sling for two weeks. He’d left for Italy not long after that, wishing to put distance between himself and his aunt’s wrath. Perhaps his Lady Murasaki had been concerned he would attempt to find a sister in Chiyoh. Chiyoh had only been sixteen when she’d attempted to teach him a lesson and he could only  _imagine_  how dangerous she’d become in the years since.

Bella informed him of her intentions to name Chiyoh as her successor and Hannibal politely listened to her reasoning; he agreed immediately that she would be a wonderful addition to the White House, his mind filled with the possibilities of what she would look like as his ally and not a lawful impartial that studied him the way one watched a particularly beautiful insect. 

“I would like to invite you to my table for dinner tonight,” he told her.

She turned her gaze back from the window to him. “Not tonight. Thursday.”

“Thursday,” he agreed.

“Do you remember how the Lady Murasaki cooked calf brains?” she asked after a small pause.

Ah, she wanted comfort food. “I do.”

“I shall call your office for the time and a clearance pass, then.” Her eyes went window once more and he wondered what she was watching and waiting for. “There is still much for Bella and I to discuss. Have a good day, Hannibal.”

Oh, how bold of her to dismiss him—Chiyoh was certainly a woman confident of her own presence. 

He stood and bowed his head to her, as though she was his Lady Murasaki. “I shall. Have a good day as well, Chiyoh.”

“We’ll speak later, Hannibal,” Bella assured him.

Oh, they certainly would. 

*****

Will was lightheaded and needed to throw up when he woke next. It was early morning and he was alone in the room save for a suited agent he didn’t recognise and a nurse whom he did.

“Good morning, Mr Graham. Are you feeling sick?” the nurse asked as he stood from his chair, coming over to Will’s bedside swiftly.

Will was trying to dry heave, which was uncomfortable enough on its own, but his body was instinctually trying to force his jaws open, which felt as though his skull was being ripped apart. He kept letting out sharp cries, unable to stop himself. 

“You’re having a reaction to the medication. Don’t worry—just a side effect. I think the dosage was too much for your weight.” The nurse held a kidney pan under Will’s mouth, ready to catch anything that might be drooled out. “I’ll give you something for the pain.”

The dry heaving spell passed and Will fell back on the bed, panting. 

The nurse—whom Will now remembered as Tony from the Memorial Clinic—glanced down at his watch as he took Will’s pulse, fingers pressed to the inside of Will’s left wrist. The clinical, detached manner was very comforting and he started to relax. Tony smiled down at him and released his hold of Will’s arm, laying it to rest on Will’s stomach. 

“I’m sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances, but I’m sure glad you’re back, Mr Graham.” 

Will nodded and sat back up, breathing in and out through his nose hard. 

Tony lifted a medical clipboard off the nightstand, glancing over the papers and then back at Will. “Hannibal’s told me that he’s monitoring you in the evenings and that when you woke up last night you were able to walk to the bathroom with assistance. Would you like to go now? Or if you’re feeling tired—“

Will shook his head quickly, just wanting to sit; he could vividly imagine his legs unable to support his weight and was certain that his lack of confidence in walking would be enough to make him fail at it. He allowed the other man to feed him a smoothie-like drink through a straw that contained the liquid painkiller he’d been promised.

His stomach felt very strange to be so full and he was very conscious of the two missing teeth and the swelling of his tongue. But his head wasn’t spinning any longer and he allowed the nurse to adjust some pillows behind him so he could sit.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him flinch and he looked at the agent still standing by the windows, watching him. Will could tell he was biding his time, that he wanted to talk, and Will felt a growing dread of having to interact with anyone. 

Tony handed him the small dry erase board that had been left on the night stand and asked him a series of questions regarding how he felt. Will answered him as best he could, sensing that there were things the nurse wasn’t telling him, which made him even more uneasy.

Finally the questionnaire came to an end, and the nurse seemed satisfied, writing little notes on the clipboard and occasionally pausing to tap the pen to his lips as he contemplated what to document next. Will could tell that he was this man’s first full time patient, and he wondered if Hannibal had merely snapped his fingers and Tony had jumped to make the President happy. At least Hannibal had known well enough to pick someone familiar to Will so that he’d feel a little less anxious about having to deal medical matters.

The agent by the windows took a step forward as Tony set down the clipboard and neatened the sheets. “Tony, you mind if I have a few minutes alone with Mr Graham? I should probably introduce myself.”

Tony flashed a smile that made Will think of a toothpaste commercial—the man was ridiculously photogenic. “No problem. I’m going to run down to the kitchens and order some lunch for him.”

“Thanks.” The agent’s eyes slid over to Will as the nurse left the room and then he pulled a chair over beside the bed. “Morning, Mr Graham. I’m Agent Leonard Brauer, your new senior agent.”

// _Where is Matthew_ // Will had a distant memory of wanting to have him removed from his detail the day he’d been kidnapped. Had something happened to him, too?

“It was decided by the President, First Lady, and headquarters that you have a new senior agent. Agent Brown is still on your detail, but I’m taking over his responsibilities now.” Will could tell from the wording that Brown had been demoted at the Lecters’ request. “Consider me your personal guard dog, slash attack dog.”

Will would never train a dog to attack someone, though he was aware that his strays would get protective of him. But Brauer was neither dog nor stray and he was wary of involving himself with anyone new—the dynamics of his life were fragile enough as it was, and expecting someone else to understand AND play by the rules was not anything he was interested in. 

“You might not like it, but I’d like to get to know you. Not as a ‘best friends forever’ situation, but so that we know how to communicate better,” Brauer said. 

// _What do you want to know_ // Will wished he was still in a medicated sleep. 

“Tell me what the Lecters like about you.”

// _My personality_ // He underlined it in a fit of pique, shoving the board over for the agent to see.

“No  _shit_ ,” Brauer said with a laugh. “Look, I know you’ve gone through a lot in the past year, but you’ve got to understand that life for you will never be the same. Secret Service has already decided that you’ll get an agent for the rest of your life—unless you decline—even if you don’t stay with Lecter. You’re a high-risk subject. And someday—whether it be tomorrow or the weeks after Lecter is finally out of office in seven years—people are going to figure out that you and the President aren’t just buddies. You’re going to be subject to death threats, murder attempts, assault, all sorts of shit you’re not going to be able to deal with on your own. I am your senior agent for the next ten years. Unless I die in the line of duty, or you decide to go solo, I will be in your life constantly. We can tolerate each other for those three-thousand, five-hundred and sixty-two days, or we can get along. There’s nothing wrong with being friends.”

// _Hannibal said that same thing & look at me now_//

“I’ll let him keep you, believe me,” Brauer said, rolling his eyes. “Can you at least make the effort?”

Will was grudging, feeling himself slipping back into White House quicksand. // _I’ll try_ //

// _You can talk about whatever you want & I’ll listen. I’m tired_//

“Got it. So, I’ve read your papers on political elitism and its impact on economics—and that thing you wrote on using statistics in polling. Interesting stuff.”

As Brauer spoke on about his opinions about Will’s writing and theories in Political Science, Will relaxed back into the pillows. He didn’t feel so weak now, though he still felt sore and like shit in comparison to how he knew he was supposed to feel. Brauer laughed at a few of his own jokes and had that irritating arrogance that frat boys thought was charming—Will could picture how much of an asshole he’d been in university—but he was also incredibly smart and from the way he spoke, Will almost believed he was a lawyer and not a Secret Service agent. And unlike Matthew, Brauer wasn’t looking for Will’s approval. As much as Will found him grating, he could understand why Hannibal had picked him.

Tony returned after about ten minutes and Brauer accepted the coffee he’d been brought and continued telling Will about some stupid tennis match he’d played at Harvard; it was all filler noise to Will and it dawned on him that Brauer was keeping all conversation carefully steered away from anything that might remind him of his captivity. Considerate and most likely for security reasons.

Will had lunch—a thin broccoli soup that had been warm and easy to sip through a straw—while Tony and Brauer had their sandwiches and attempted a conversation between the two of them that Will could nod or shake his head to. Will had the impression that they’d been socialising frequently when he’d been asleep and that the nurse didn’t want him to feel left out. 

As lunch was finishing, the door to the bedroom opened and Brauer wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his wrist and stood up. 

“Good afternoon, First Lady.” 

“Hello, Agent Brauer. Hello, Tony.” Abigail paused slightly in her steps upon seeing him sitting up in the bed and large smile crossed her lips, eyes widening as she hurried over to his side. “You’re awake! Daddy wouldn’t let me wake you up—“ she lowered her voice to a whisper as she knelt beside the bed, “—and I would have, but I was worried he might have me banned from your room, so I was patient and waited.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. She stood up and composed herself, shifting from Abigail the Daughter to Abigail the First Lady. 

“I missed you so much. How are you feeling?”

He found the dry erase board once more and wrote down,

// _Tired_ //

“Do you need to sleep?”

// _No_ //

// _Just want to relax_ // he added beneath it.

“Okay.” She kissed the crown of his head. “I could only stop by for a few minutes, but I’ll clear my schedule after lunch and spend the rest of the day with you. Text me if you need anything and I’ll make sure you get it, okay?”

He touched her hand and nodded as much as he could.

“I love you so much,” she said, her smile as warm as the sun.

He sighed and squeezed her hand.

As she walked out of the room, he caught Tony watching her with disapproval and Will could feel the coming storm beginning to brew. 

*****

Ardelia had a secret she was proud of and when she was sitting in the backseat of Cadillac One with the President, she decided it was time to share. “I’m doing it. I’m changing my major to criminal justice.” 

The President offered her a small smile as he removed the leather gloves he’d had on. “How bold.”

She was happy to see that reaction from him—her family had been more-so confused. “I’m nervous. But really excited. I think I could do so much more than what I’m doing right now.” She quickly amended her words. “Not that I don’t love being your assistant. I love this job.”

“Miss Mapp, I would be disappointed if someone with your talent and intelligence was wasted in politics.”

The motorcade began its trek up an on ramp and down the Missouri freeway. 

“Why did you become a politician?” she asked after a few minutes. 

“Bedelia promised to give me Abigail on the condition I return the favour. She kept her promise and so I kept mine.”

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” She studied him, wondering what kind of person would willingly take on the Presidency out of obligation; she was beginning to see more and more everyday that made her suspect that Lecter had never liked politics in the first place. 

“Too many pigs and too many sheep for even the wolves to keep in check.”

She nodded as though she understood entirely what he meant and turned her attention out the windows.

*****

Abel thought that eating calf brains was absolutely repulsive and if he didn’t think it was so important to show a united front with the Lecter family with their guest and potential new Press Secretary, he’d have declined attending dinner. He stared down at his plate, hoping his disgust was hidden—he didn’t want to offend Hannibal or alarm the woman sitting to his left.

“Uncle Abel, this was the recipe Lady Murasaki used to prepare for my father’s uncle Robertas,” Abigail told him as she poured her father a glass of wine. 

“How nice to keep it in the family.” He swallowed hard as he looked down at the gelatinous slices on his plate. 

Prodding at the asparagus, he glanced back up at Ms Sakamoto, who was cutting into her brains without hesitation. 

“I’ve been told that you and Hannibal knew one another growing up.” He left the statement open-ended with the intention for her to fill in the blank.

She was quiet just long enough for him to feel awkward, chewing and swallowing the sliver of brain she’d cut on her plate and once he was about to feel embarrassed for attempting conversation, she spoke.

“My mother knew his aunt, the Lady Murasaki, from social events. She wished for me to study under someone’s tutelage and the Lady Murasaki graciously offered the opportunity to her. I only saw Hannibal on occasion.”

“Chiyoh would visit for a few hours every week. She was a quick study of the arts and I found her very impressive,” Hannibal stated, smiling at the woman. 

Abel watched as Ms Sakamoto’s eyes shifted to look at Abigail. She seemed to be studying the young woman and Abel suddenly felt on defense; Abigail was the last person at this table who needed to be judged by  _anyone_  and he didn’t particularly care for some  _stranger_  making assumptions about her, family friend or not. He would need to make a note of that for Hannibal—Abigail could do no wrong and for as long as these horrible rumours about her character were floating around, people would consider her reputation as worthless. And from the way Ms Sakamoto was eyeing everyone at the table, he could only imagine what she thought of the First Lady.

Ms Sakamoto spoke once the silence had become heavy again. “When I was ten, I went to the museum of Natural History with Hannibal and the Lady Murasaki. There I saw an insect collection—I thought it was so fascinating, so beautiful. I voiced my intention of one day having a collection of my own. When I returned the next month, Hannibal presented me with a large collection of butterflies and beetles he’d preserved and mounted in a shadow box.”

Abel nodded and pretended interest in the brains that still had been left untouched on his plate. 

Ms Sakamoto looked to Abigail. “Has your father ever made you a bug collection?”

Abigail replied with an eerie sereneness, as though she was oblivious to the coldness the other woman was radiating. “My father has caught me everything I’ve ever asked for.”

Abel could feel that a larger conversation was happening that he was not privy to, that secrets were being exchanged and there was a good possibility that he didn’t wish to know what they were. He was uncomfortable here with these coded words and calf brains, and he wondered if anyone else at the table could tell he didn’t want to be here.

“Whatever happened to the collection, Chiyoh?” Hannibal asked after a moment.

Abel’s eyes moved back over to watch the woman talk.

“I still have it. I never lost the interest—I collect insects from everywhere I travel.”

“Where did you work before this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and collected—everything about this dinner was beginning to wear on him.

“The UN. I was a negotiator.”

“Oh. What an amazing job. Have you worked on the Iran nuclear arrangements?” Abel asked.

“No, I was working between Russian and the Ukraine. Before that, Russia and Georgia.” She took a sip of her wine. “My expertise lies in Eastern Europe. That is why Phyllis Crawford thought I might be the best match for Hannibal at the moment.”

“Do we need to negotiate in Eastern Europe?” Abigail asked her father curiously.

Abel was eager to know more, too; the tension between Russia’s Putin and the rest of the world had escalated, and it was no secret that Lecter did not like the man. 

“It is a possibility,” he replied neutrally and Abel made a small noise of agreement, finding a small spark of boldness as he cut some of the brain on his plate and tried it.

Not bad, but he would never eat it after tonight. As he had as a child, he began to think of other things as he dutifully ate everything on his plate. Hannibal made a few comments about the upcoming spring and DC’s cherry blossom festival, and then they were done with dinner. As Hannibal cleared the plates from the table, taking them to the kitchen were staff waited to clean them, Ms Sakamoto surveyed the three of them critically before Hannibal suggested that she join him in the Yellow Room for a nightcap.

Abigail, sweet saving grace of this decade, came to his side; she gave a longing look down the hallway to Graham’s room, but turned her full attention back to him.

“Uncle Abel, shall we retire to the music room while they talk? We can have the kitchens bring us desert. The new pastry chef is a true artist.

He smiled and agreed it would a delightful way to end the evening, allowing her to lead him off to the third floor.

*****

Will was relaxing in the silence of the bedroom when Hannibal returned; he lacked the attention span to attempt to read and he couldn’t deal with the noise and emotions required to watch television. He’d been told that tonight they’d host the soon-to-be Press Secretary for dinner and Hannibal had drifted in and out of the bedroom all evening as he worked on cooking; Tony had left for the day and Hannibal had smelt of garlic and butter, stealing chaste kisses from the right side of Will’s lips were he wasn’t hurt. Will could tell that Hannibal liked this new potential addition to the White House, that he was enthusiastic to cook for them. Will hadn’t been given a name and he’d not asked for one, knowing that in time he’d find out. For now, he didn’t want to think about politics.

“I am sorry I was away for longer than intended, Will. Dinner went later than planned.”

He kissed Will’s forehead gently, perhaps to take his temperature, perhaps just to smell him, never simply to kiss.

“I shall ready myself for bed.”

Hannibal disappeared into the bathroom for sometime and Will wasn’t exactly restless, but certainly eager to have company in his form. Will made a small noise of contentment when Hannibal settled beside him on the bed. It took a moment for the two of them to coordinate their bodies comfortably together, side by side. Hannibal was close and tender as he kissed Will’s chest, his shoulder. He smelt of mouthwash and fresh linens, and Will rolled slightly onto his bad shoulder to align his body better with him. 

Will didn’t feel particularly attractive, but there was a guilt that had built within him at being so useless in this bed. Hannibal tipped Will’s chin back slightly to gain access to Will’s neck and his eyes closed at the soft kisses. His own fingers were slowly trailing down Hannibal’s chest, through the familiar silvering hair and down over his stomach until he could slip his hand down the front of Hannibal’s trousers, grateful they couldn’t look one another in the eyes lest he see rejection. But Hannibal didn’t pull away or pause, merely continued his tasting and nipping of Will’s skin until his cock grew full against Will’s thigh as his hands teased and stroked at it.

Without words, their bodies moved in sync for the next part of their time together in this bed: Hannibal began to strip out of his pyjama pants as he moved over Will’s body and Will eased onto his back once more, legs spread and knees up. It was as though they’d never been apart, and while two and a half months wasn’t particularly long, they were both different now and Will would be stupid not to know that. 

Hannibal settled between his thighs, still kissing and nuzzling and Will stroked his hands up and over the other man’s bare shoulders and back, taking in the smooth skin and scars and muscles and simply the  _expanse_  of Hannibal’s body. 

Will sighed, turning his head to look at the darkness of the bedroom. There was a standing mirror not far from the bed and Will could see their reflection in it, a private performance. Hannibal kissed his neck, unable to kiss the side of his face due to the bandaging. He began slow and steady thrusts, the precome on his cock head making Will’s skin slick enough to slide against. Will watched Hannibal’s body in the mirror. Hannibal’s body was simply a dark silhouette above his body. It looked as though he was fucking Will and Will stared; he was hungry for that passion they used to share and in the reflection of the mirror, that’s exactly what he had. It was an illusion, but a beautiful one. Hannibal’s breathing became harder, ragged and Will felt a smile start to form on his lips as he knew Hannibal was indulging him in his fantasy, that he’d figured out what Will was looking at. Will’s toes curled into the mattress, clutching at the warm fitted bed sheet beneath him and his hands grasped at Hannibal’s shoulders. The strong muscles beneath his fingers flexed and strained as Hannibal continued thrusting along Will’s body.

Hannibal was definitely playing along with the illusion of their coupling, moving and arching his body so that the reflection in the mirror was particularly attractive to Will. Will let out a small moan simply for the sake of the moment. 

Will reached down to stroke at himself, but found that he couldn’t find the energy required to get hard; he was willing to grant himself some sympathy considering his current medical status. His hands found Hannibal’s cock next and in response, Hannibal kissed hungrily at his throat. Will’s fingers traced and touched, forming a fist for Hannibal to thrust into, and then his other hand cupping and fondling Hannibal’s balls.

Will watched Hannibal lower his body so that the movements seemed more intimate as Hannibal’s arms came along the sides of Will’s head, fingers in his hair as his kissing of his neck became more insistent. Will liked the way their bodies looked together in the dark of the room. 

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal moaned, and Will was certain it was half performance, half of it ernest. 

Rhythmic, a metronome…

Hannibal finished between their bodies with a rough and harsh gasp, his lips beside Will’s ear, and rest the weight of his body on Will’s. Will sighed, exhausted; it didn’t matter if he’d hardly moved a muscle—it had taken everything out of him to stay awake and enjoy this.

“I love you,” Will murmured the best he could.

Hannibal kissed him roughly along his neck, whispering softly against Will’s skin, “I love you, too.”

“I need to clean up,” he told Hannibal, feeling his skin start to crawl.

“You should rest.”

“I can’t—I can’t go to bed dirty.” He shuddered.

“Very well, Will.”

In the bathroom light, Will could see the flush across Hannibal’s chest and shoulders and upper thighs and he couldn’t help but smile, pulling himself close to the other man. Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him and Will rest his head against the other man’s neck, pressing his lips gently to the bare skin. 

He needed to catch his breath, needed to stay as long as possible in the bliss he felt being with Hannibal, knowing he was still wanted despite everything that had happened to him. 

“Will, let us clean off and then we can go back to bed,” Hannibal said after a few minutes. 

“‘Kay,” he mumbled.

Hannibal ran a wet washcloth over Will’s stomach, crotch, and thighs, and while Will leaned against the wall, Hannibal rinsed the washcloth and wiped himself clean as well.

“I shall give you a sedative, so that you don’t have any nightmares.”

Will nodded, relieved. Hannibal retrieved a kit from the bedroom and returned to inject Will with something in his left arm; the smallest pin pick that made him think of a night when something had bit the inside of his arm and—

“Would you like me to carry you, Will?”

“Thank you,” Will said in genuine appreciation. 

Hannibal didn’t make him feel like a child or helpless as he lifted him; Will wrapped his hands around Hannibal’s shoulders, tipping his forehead against Hannibal’s. As they lie together in bed, Hannibal curled close to him and rest his head on Will’s shoulder. 

“Did you enjoy that as much as I did, Will?”

“Yes.” Will brought a hand up to thread through the other man’s hair, feeling that it was damp at the scalp. 

“The bed has felt too big without you.”

The words were hard to say, his tongue still swollen. “Did you really hate sleeping alone?”

Hannibal was quiet momentarily, then answered. “More than I had anticipated.”

Will felt an ache in his chest and he spoke slowly so that his words were clear. “I’m not going anywhere. Can’t get rid of me.”

“I shall hold you to that promise, Will.”

He smiled. “You’d better.”

Hannibal kissed the side of his neck, arm draped over Will’s waist. Will closed his eyes and if Hannibal said anything else, he didn’t hear as his mind sank into the depths of a dreamless sleep.

*****

Silently, Reba counted the steps she was taking as she was led to the Oval Office, moving her cane from side to side to make sure her path didn’t contain any uneven carpets or rugs she might trip on in this corridor. The Secret Service agent who was walking by her side seemed unsure of her ability to navigate the area without sight and twice he’d offered to hold her elbow—which she’d politely declined. It was well intentioned, but she hadn’t gone this long in life by relying on others. 

She heard the agent come to a stop and so she slowed her own steps until she was certain she was standing beside him, turning her head towards him so that she could hear his movements better.

“Okay, the doors are right ahead of you and I’ve opened them for you,” he said.

“Thank you, Agent Zeller.”

“I’ll be waiting right out here when you’re finished to escort you back to your cab.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped into the office, her heels and cane on carpet, which meant she couldn’t hear how large the room was based on the sound of her footsteps. 

Someone stood in front of her and he made his presence clear with the strongly accented voice she’d become familiar with on the television; she estimated that he was at least a foot taller than her, give or take an inch.

“Dr McClane, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. There is a chair fifteen steps ahead of you to your right,” President Lecter said and she offered out her hand for him to shake.

She liked that he had a firm grip, that he wasn’t handling her delicately as people were prone to do. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr President.”  

She walked the fifteen steps forward carefully, but with confidence; there was a rug on the carpet and she was careful to step over it and her cane tapped against the legs. Wooden, and as her hand reached out to find the arm rest, she noted that it was wood with padded upholstery, comfortable and smooth from years of being used. She sat down and heard him sit in what was likely a matching chair to her right, about two arms length away from her. 

“May I have anything brought to you? Water? Coffee?” he offered.

“Thank you very much, but no.” Her right hand felt in her purse’s interior square pocket for her business card case and removed it, thumb pushing the soft calfskin leather lid up to remove one of her business cards; the heavy paper had raised braille and the alien embossing of her name and occupation. She extended the card out to him. “I was told that you were in need of a psychiatrist.”

The card was gently removed from her hand and she brought hers back to rest in her lap, setting her purse down against her left ankle; she didn’t doubt that he had any piece of information he wanted on her already, but she liked formalities and giving him the business card was an important ritual for new and potential clients. 

“In a sense, yes,” the President said. “As you’ve no doubt been informed, Will Graham has been recovered from the hostage situation he was held in.”

“I have. It’s all anyone talks about.” She wanted to know how that made him feel.

“There are details that have been withheld from the media about the kidnapping and subsequent rescue that the White House feels will require the assistance of a professional such as yourself.”

She wasn’t completely surprised—when she’d told her husband that morning over breakfast about the Secret Service taking her to the White House, he’d brought up the possibility that she might be needed to see Mr Graham as a patient. She’d considered that she might be called in as a consultant on something, possibly as an interesting figure the White House wished to showcase as part of their appreciation of people in the mental health field of study.

“I understand. I’m sure you’ve been given my file to review? I do specialise in cases of war trauma and disfigurement; my clients are mainly soldiers, but all of them are survivors of some grievous injury. Will Graham has suffered a very traumatic event of being kidnapped, held hostage, and assaulted during that time. There is a possibility that while addressing anything that happened to him during the past two and a half months, there might be matters from his past that have been brought to the surface as a result.”

Her mind was racing a mile a minute, trying to prepare herself for anything and everything possible. He would be a unique patient, a case with so many possible difficulties and outcomes—PTSD, depression, suicidal impulses, manias, low self-esteem. She couldn’t wait to get his file back to her office to listen to her computer read it to her. 

“I envy your ability to treat him,” the President said.  

It was understandable he felt helpless in this situation and she was careful to reassure him of his value. “As a doctor, I’m sure you’ve been able to assist him in ways I couldn’t.” She made the mental note to schedule a session with the President as well, to make sure he was mentally capable of handling what had happened to Graham, too. “When will I be able to meet him?”

“I would like to schedule his first appointment for next week. He is still in the process of acclimating to life here.”

Reba, who liked to see the benevolence in everyone, smiled. A man as important as the President often outsourced many things, but to have actually devoted so much care and consideration to his best friend’s recovery was something that restored her faith in humanity. 

“He’s very lucky to have a friend like you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “And I am lucky to have him.”

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +”Get out of Dodge”=leave a bad/dangerous situation
> 
> +APB= All Points Bulletin
> 
> +TSA=Transportation Security Administration
> 
> +DOJ=United States Department of Justice
> 
> +The Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP), a division of the DOJ, does not have a designated supermax facility for women. Women in the BOP system who are classified as “special management concerns” due to violence and/or escape attempts are confined in the administrative unit of Federal Medical Center, Carswell in Fort Worth, Texas.
> 
> +Secret Service agents are assigned to people for a ten year period, which I learned from an episode of “California Gold” with Huewell Houser
> 
> +Special thanks to National Anthem artist, Ninjaninaiii, for selecting names for Chiyoh, and making suggestions on which ones ones would suit her character best. You are truly bae.
> 
> +The White House just had a blind and deaf lawyer introduce President Obama at the White House. The White House twitter has more information.
> 
> +REBA!!! Reba McClane is my queen and I will fight anyone who doesn’t like her. I’ve been dying to have her in the story since last year and was very excited to see who they cast. SHE IS PERFECT. Special thanks to Ninjaninaiii and Mads_Hugh_Lover for letting me brainstorm with them in January over her character development.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following warnings are Verger-related  
> +Graphic description of torture during sex  
> +Description of underage rape  
> +Description of incest.
> 
> The following is Will related  
> +Anxiety attack  
> +Graphic description of injuries  
> +Suicidal thoughts

“Was that good for you, Mason?” Cordell asked as he wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with a hand towel.

He had slipped on a robe and belted it around his waist, walking across the room towards him.

“Absolutely marvelous,” Mason said cheerfully, his body propped up to watch the centre of the room.

Cordell smiled, sitting down on the end of the bed to catch his breath. The room was stuffy and hot, and if Mason had still been able to smell, he would have found that the room had the cloying odor of sex. It did feel thick on his tongue, though and he pretended he could taste it.

The young woman on the floor groaned and tried to right herself, her joints painfully rigid from having held herself on her hands and knees over the eel’s aquarium for the past thirty minutes; she no longer flinched when it swam underneath her and Mason could hear her exhale sharply as she finally sat back on her ass on the hardwood floor. She looked like the spitting image of Margot when she’d been in her twenties, her body carefully toned and conditioned to mimic his sister’s frame before she’d decided to get interested in bodybuilding; he’d also paid for a considerable amount of teeth whitening and subtle cosmetic surgeries to get body and face just right.

His Margot didn’t have the patience or stupidity to find herself in the games he wanted to play anymore, which was fine because he liked this woman’s shame more. They—he and Cordell—had found her on a BDSM messaging board, just a stupid teenager who was curious, but naive enough to think she could handle someone dominating her. Not that Mason considered anything they did BDSM—no, that would imply that she had any control of the situation, which she certainly didn’t.

Money was the largest factor of what made their relationship a relationship—he gave her money, and he got to take whatever he wanted. Some days he was in the mood to watch her having unusual objects being inserted into various orifices, and other days he simply wanted to watch Cordell fuck her until she was sobbing and cursing his name. Boredom often factored into his decisions and once his sister had gained the limited freedom that becoming a Secret Service agent had granted her, he’d sought out substitutes; and being this rich meant that the substitutes were very good. 

The woman got off the floor, standing unsteadily, her eyes on the floor, possibly looking for her shoe, possibly just trying to avoid looking at him. She turned slightly and he saw the hint of an ugly scar on her right ass cheek, large and circular. A few years back, he’d offered her a million dollars to brand her with the Verger pig branding iron—something that hadn’t been used in decades because of those _fucking_ spineless sacks of shit in Washington that had cowed to the liberal animal rights menace in this country. The branding iron had been kept out of nostalgia and he’d burned the mark into various walls and floors in the house as well as all of Margot’s horses and a dead raccoon he’d found on the edge of the property; but up to that point, he’d never put it to human flesh and he was eager for it.

A million dollars to an eighteen year old sounded outrageous and she’d agreed, needing to prove to him that she was ‘for real’ about this slave/master crap, needing to secure her place amongst his money. He also suspected she needed to reassure herself that she was wanted by someone, even if it was a man off the internet. So he and Cordell had made a fancy ceremony out of it, binding her to a saw horse, naked and wearing the diamond jewellery his late father had often bought for mistresses. She’d obviously wanted to back out at the last moment, but she’d been gagged and was no longer in a position to refuse. Mason’s entire mind had been blinded with pleasure at the sound of her scream, at the sound of hot metal on skin. He’d ended up giving her two million, just to shut her up and to make her willing to pick up the phone again the next time he called. And she always picked up the phone, addicted to the easy money that came with being fucked.

Tonight she was obviously high, had arrived that way and he thought that took a lot of the fun out of the matter, but wouldn’t turn her away for it. He knew about the cocaine habit she’d picked up in the past year—almost too cliché—but he supposed she needed to spend all that money somewhere. She was wearing the cocktail dress Margot had worn to a party when she was seventeen or sixteen, bunched up around her waist; one high-heel was still was on her foot, but the other was somewhere out of Mason’s sight from the bed.

Cordell was watching her, too, drinking water from the crystal tumbler that had been set out for him and as Mason’s eyes shifted over to the man, he felt a brief satisfaction that he’d been able to facilitate something sadistic for him. Cordell was the only person in his entire life he’d ever actually wanted to impress. Well, if one didn’t count Lecter the night he’d come over and snapped his neck. He’d wanted to impress him, too. That hadn’t turned out so well, as everyone knew. But Cordell was the first person who truly understood Mason, from his wants and needs to his hopes and dreams. Cordell had almost a sixth sense about the things Mason enjoyed and occasionally, Mason felt a yearning to keep Cordell forever.

When he was twelve, Mason had accidentally come across his father fucking one of the maids over the large desk in his father’s study, and the look of hatred on her face had inspired something in Mason. Butterflies in his stomach, he considered who he wanted to share that kind of moment with. He’d wanted to see the same look on his twin’s face and so he went off and found her, pinning her to the Persian carpet of the third floor’s second guest room. She’d screamed for help only once and then had given him a horrible glare through her tears as he fucked her hard. It had been wonderful.

And then it became a daily ritual: find Margot on the property and see how long it took her to give him that hatred. It wasn’t until a few months later that their father had found out: he’d slapped Margot for not fighting harder and had then slapped him for twisting her arm enough to dislocate her shoulder. But Mason recalled vividly that he wasn’t actually punished for the act itself and so he hadn’t stopped. And he never blamed Margot for their father punishing them—Mason really _had_ been too rough and he knew that the next time he’d remember not to break his playthings when his father could find out.

Now because of the fucking paralysis, he couldn’t get it up anymore and even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to feel anything. But Cordell could and Cordell was willing to give Mason a show and that was all Mason really wanted—something to dwell on and consider during the infinite stretch of time that was his life now.

“Cordell, I’m thinking of getting a new dolly to play with,” he admitted, wanting the other man’s attention on him.

Cordell raised an eyebrow. “This one isn’t doing it for you anymore?”

“She’s fun, but I think she’s run her course. Sometimes old toys have to be left behind.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“An Abigail Lecter doll for my collection.”

At this, Cordell gave a low, amused laugh. “I’ve already got the perfect one picked out. Just say the word and I can have her brought here.”

 _Of course_ Cordell would have anticipated this. “Cordell, you sly old thing. You just love to spoil me, don’t you?”

Cordell’s smile was accompanied with a shrug and then glanced back to the woman still on the floor. “What do you want done with this one?”

Mason knew what to say to get the other man’s heart racing.

“Feed her to the pigs.”

*****

Abigail moved through the White House with all the cheerfulness of a successful hunt or making someone she disliked cry. Belated birthday preparations were in order for her father; fresh flowers for Will’s bedroom and sitting room, along with bolder arrangements for the rest of the house in celebration for his return; a nice dinner for Ms Sakamoto when she was officially announced as the replacement for Mrs Crawford later this week; thank-you notes to send to everyone who’d given well wishes to Will, and she and her father; finding a few extra minutes to give attention to Suttcliffe, who’d started to give her _looks_ when they were in the same room—something she needed him to stop **immediately**.

Georgia followed after her enthusiastically, offering advice and making arrangements via text and email for all the tasks she wanted accomplished now that everything in her life was back in order. She hadn’t been this busy in ages and felt compelled to dress up, craving the elegance that came to she and her family easily: white pearls once owned by Jacqueline Kennedy, an ice blue sheath dress, low heels, and a mint green scarf. Abigail had already caught the White House’s official photographer stalking her throughout the building to catch her for some candid shots, and she obliged, giving everyone friendly smiles while still commanding their respect and admiration. Yes, a good portion still believed the hideous story that she’d been fucking Will, but for now she could ignore that.

She was the queen again, back on top.

*****

Before joining Will in the bedroom that night, Hannibal observed a few off-duty Secret Service agents bringing boxes of pizza down to the basement floor; earlier in the day, Agent Katz had informed him that the Secret Service would be hosting an informal celebration in the Navy Mess, inviting him and Mapp to attend for beers and music. He had politely declined, though he had seen Mapp’s eagerness to attend the function, that she was seeing herself as no longer an outsider within the White House. He stopped the agents and offered them the opportunity to take a few cases of White House Honey Ale down to the party, as he regrettably could not attend. They’d happily accepted the offer and expressed their wishes for Will to ‘get well soon’.

The bedroom was dark and a fire had been made in the fireplace earlier, now just a glowing pile of embers; Hannibal undressed and stayed in the bathroom just long enough to brush his teeth and clean his face. Hannibal stretched his arms as he walked back into the bedroom, carefully inspecting everything in the room. There was an assortment of magazines tucked neatly behind the chair that Agent Brauer had claimed for himself and there was a small indentation in the carpet where the man had moved the chair just enough to have a better angle of the doors. There was also an indentation in the carpet where a grandfather clock had once stood; Will had requested that all the clocks be removed from the room, as he found the marking of time to be troubling, possibly frustrating. Hannibal had honoured the request, even adding a small piece of black electrical tape over the small part of Will’s BlackBerry screen that would otherwise display the time while they indulged in the occasional text throughout the day.

Hannibal had continued delaying the inevitable interviews and debriefings that were necessary by declaring himself Will’s primary doctor and thusly, had the final say in who had access to Will and when. It hadn’t been particularly cunning of him, but was certainly a decision that none of the security advisors liked. It was critical to Hannibal that he receive any and all information Will had first, so that he might parse it and decide how to pursue this REDDRAGON, this Dolarhyde. And with Will under the haze of medication and sedatives, it was a slow going process. Hannibal had all the time in the world to wait.

Will smiled drowsily at him as Hannibal slid under the covers; the room was cooler than he preferred, but he enjoyed feeling the younger man curl closer to him in order to stay warm at night. He used to turn down the house thermostat so that Abigail would do the same when she was younger. Fruitful habits were hard to break. That was his pattern. That was his design.

As Hannibal held Will gently against him, he matched his breathing in time with his, a single hand stroking the line of Will’s spine; it was far too bony for his liking and he tucked away the memory of the feeling far away into the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in soulmates, Will?” He closed his eyes as he thought of his sister. “I met my first soulmate when I was six. Mischa was the absolute love of my life. She redefined what it meant to have emotions. I planned for our lives together, for our world together from the moment I held her in my arms.”

Will’s fingers dragged in slow, rhythmic movements across his chest, through the coarse hair. Hannibal placed a kiss on the other man’s forehead, feeling Will’s fingers pause as Hannibal’s chest expanded from breathing in.

“Then I met my aunt, the Lady Murasaki. She walked on water. I loved her very much. She was clever and beautiful, and I…mistakenly believed she understood me in a way others did not, but I later came to realise that she only saw a projection of herself on me. That she’d never truly seen me at all.” Hannibal felt something that wasn’t quite regret, but close enough that he would allow others to label it as such. “Lecters are unfortunately very romantic about their relationships to others.”

Will gave a small exhale through his nose that might have been a snort of amusement or disgust.

For a moment, Hannibal indulged in the memories of a young Abigail Hobbs dying on the floor of Kick’s, of how he’d felt the universe making room for the return of Mischa within her. There was still conflict within him regarding Abigail, his daughter, his reborn sister; could one create a soulmate or was that something for the fates to decide? She was a twin flame to his own, but she did not fit easily into a category. She was the passion that burned within his heart, the fire whom he longed to please and impress. He smiled as he imagined bringing his child his own burning heart. Still unable to decide, he elected to leave her off the list for now.

His hand left Will’s back and came to touch an unaffected section of the younger man’s cheek, smiling at him. “And now I have you. And I get to keep you. There are forces in the universe that have us in orbit, swinging us away from one another, then bringing us back together. And apart again, then back…” He closed the distance between them once more and kissed Will’s warm forehead. “You are mine. Just as I am yours.”

*****

Abigail had managed ten pull-ups in the gym and as she panted, hanging from the bar, she asked, “When are we going to tell him?”

Hannibal didn’t look from the dark window he’d been looking out as he ran. “Perhaps we should today.”

“May I be there? He should have both of us there to support him.” He glanced back at her and she dropped to the floor from the bar she’d been hanging from, very sincerely telling him, “It’s not pity—I promise.”

He nodded and looked back out at the approaching dawn. “Very well.”

*****

Will wasn’t quite sure what the date was, but it had been a few days since he’d woken up. Or maybe it had been many. Everything had a strange distant quality to it, as though he was caught in an out-of-body experience or a dream. In the Lincoln Bedroom he was both disconnected and disoriented from the outside world: he could hear voices in the outside hallway on occasion, he had limited human interaction, and mostly spent his time sleeping and slipping in and out of various states of awareness.

He was certain it was a weekend, as Abigail and Hannibal had joined him for a quiet breakfast in the bedroom; there was an attached sitting room to the bedroom, but Will preferred the familiarity of the bedroom at this point and didn’t want to endure the production of getting him from one room to the next. He was still wobbly when walking—his muscles ached constantly from the exercises he had to do with Tony during the afternoon—and standing up made him lightheaded half of the time. He wasn’t keen to pass out simply because he wanted to be with them while they ate their eggs.

A suitable table with three chairs was placed by the windows; Will had been invited to sit between Abigail and Hannibal, overlooking the lawn and DC quietly. He’d already fed himself one of the chalky nutrient rich pastes that were stocked in the mini fridge by his bed. But he was content to watch them eat at the table—he was very warm in the bed and didn’t wish to give that up just yet. He moved his toes under the heavy blankets and smiled as Winston jumped up on the end of the bed, lying down and staring at him.

He made to shoo the dog off the bed, unable to speak clearly enough for Winston to understand, and Hannibal was pretending not to understand either, allowing the dog to remain with Will. Will suspected that Hannibal had been allowing Winston to sleep up on the bed with him and he wasn’t sure if he found that amusing or surprising. Abigail’s new puppy wasn’t allowed into the bedroom as she seemed to be in a chewing phase and Will’s nurse didn’t seem very enthused by having animals in his room in the first place. He wiggled his toes under the blankets and under the weight of the dog, listening to Winston sigh and shift his weight away from Will’s movements.

Will hadn’t realised he’d drifted off again until he startled awake to the feeling of Abigail sitting at his side, brushing his hair out of his face. He’d been slightly embarrassed by that and held her hand between his as he watched Hannibal collecting the breakfast dishes on a tray and carrying them out of the room, Winston following eagerly.

“Maybe I could read to you later. Unless you’d like to read it yourself,” Abigail asked as she pulled a hand away to retrieve the book that had been set on his nightstand.

He glanced down at the book with fleeting interest, his tongue absently brushing along the space where he had missing teeth; Hannibal had already assured Will that he’d have dental work when the encephalitis had cleared from his body, which Will was happy about—he hated the dentist. He watched her set the book back on the nightstand and felt himself warm at the way she smiled at him. He’d never thought he’d see her face again, and here she was, happy to see him, too.

Hannibal returned to the room, sans Winston, and sat down by Will’s knees. There was nothing indicating in his body language at what he was about to say.

“Will, Francis Dolarhyde’s body was never located.”

“What?” Speaking made his entire face hurt and he winced.

“They have done a very thorough investigation of the compound in Marathon of the bodies recovered, but his body was not among them.”

He grabbed the whiteboard that he’d tossed on the bed earlier and quickly scribbled out, // _I cut him open I saw it_ //

Hannibal’s hand wiped the words away, swiping his palm over the whiteboard twice as he said, “I believe you. We have proof you fought him. The FBI and Secret Service have proposed that despite his injuries, he was able to escape.”

// _No_ //

// _Find him_ // He underlined that four times to emphasise the desperation he felt. If that man was still on the loose, Abigail and Hannibal were still in danger.

“We are looking for him. Do not worry. I will not allow him to get you.”

// _How could he escape I cut him open_ //

“You would be surprised at how resilient the human body can be when a person wants to survive.” Again, Hannibal’s hand wiped away the words. “It is assumed that he has made it to the mainland of Florida. A boat with his DNA was found on a beach.”

“We will protect you,” Abigail promised. “You’re safe here.”

// _What does the public know_ //

“About Dolarhyde?” Abigail asked, her hands unconsciously neatening his blanket.

// _About my kidnapping_ //

// _Have they been told? How quiet was this kept?_ //

Abigail looked over at Hannibal, her brow knotted in confusion and Will felt a wave of dread wash over him. There was something more he hadn’t been told.

// _What?_ //

“They posted all of your hostage videos online. Everyone’s seen,” Abigail said softly.

Will turned his head away from them, his heart clenching painfully.

Abigail sounded concerned. “You didn’t know?”

Will didn’t shake his head, trying not to let his emotions overwhelm him, which was quickly becoming a losing battle.

// _Even_ //

He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Hannibal confirmed his worst fears.

“They showed your torture, Will.”

// _I want to see my face_ //

Up until now, he’d allowed Hannibal to make excuses about why Will couldn’t remove the bandages on his cheek and nose, had not drawn attention to the bathroom mirror that was covered with a towel, but the information about Dolarhyde and about the fact that the entire world had seen him at his most vulnerable was the breaking point. He needed to see this final, uncharted part of his life that was being hidden from him.

Abigail looked very visibly troubled and kept looking to Hannibal as though she wanted her father to stop Will, but Hannibal said nothing, simply helping Will out of the bed and the tangle of sheets around his legs. She stood off to the side, watching and worrying her hands. The bathroom was slightly cooler than the bedroom and he wished he had on thicker socks. While Hannibal removed the towel from the mirror, Will picked at the tape and bandages impatiently, frustrated and feeling the sense of dread growing within him rapidly with each second that passed.

It was worse than he imagined.

Never in his life had he flinched upon seeing someone’s face out of disgust, but this was far worse than anything he’d ever accidentally come across—huge, hideous gouges that had been quickly pieced back together. Will remembered the K-Bar being plunged into his face and the rocking movement—

“Will!”

Will felt nauseous and was gagging, which pulled at his wired jaw, and Hannibal quickly grabbed hold of him to steady him.

“You are not going to throw up. Ground yourself.”

Behind Hannibal, he could still see his face in the mirror. Under his left eye was the hideous beginning of the scar, stitched together and puckered, oozing plasma and other debris as it healed. Part of his left nostril had been cut away as well and there was a piece of his lip missing to reveal a gap where one of his missing teeth had left an empty space in his upper gum. His cheek was swollen and bruised, thought Will knew when it healed, it would be a unique new kind of hideous, a scar that would be violent and troubling for anyone to have to look at.

A wounded noise escaped his throat and Hannibal took a step closer to him, still clutching at his arms. Will tried to jerk his body away defensively, nearly losing his balance.

“I want to be alone,” he choked out, his tongue still painful and throbbing.

“I shall have your nurse—“

“NO.” He forced the word out, humiliated to be seen in this state.

Hannibal watched him for a moment, but before Will could insist further, he left, reminding Will that he was welcome to change his mind at any time. He could hear Hannibal taking Abigail out of the room and her quiet protests. His hands gripped the countertop of the bathroom sink, waiting for the Lecters to vacate and give him the privacy he needed. Once he was sure he was alone, he left the bathroom and walked towards the bed, his strength slipping with each step. But the bed suddenly didn’t look as inviting or safe as it had seemed now that he was by himself and he snatched the heavy throw blanket off the end of the bed; Will managed to stumble his way to the armoire, where there was a gap between it and the wall. He slid down into the confined space and pulled the heavy blanket up over himself. The position wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar and what was familiar felt safe. The wall against his back, the furniture tight on either side was slightly different than The Box, but the stifling dark and silence were what he wanted.

Trapped within his own thoughts, he found himself wishing for the silence of death.

*****

Hannibal had meandered down into the lobby of the Residence, biding his time. He knew that Will was exceptionally fragile and would not enjoy being alone at this particular moment, especially without alcohol and while in pain. Winston had followed him, cheerfully wagging its tail as Hannibal spoke with respectful ushers and assorted volunteers. It took fifteen minutes for Tony to find him, which didn’t surprise Hannibal either.

“He’s sitting there, hiding under a blanket. I don’t know what to do. I’m not trained in psychology,” the nurse whispered softly, concern causing his brow to knot.

“I shall go to him,” he assured him. “Winston, come.”

Hannibal entered the bedroom once more and found Will was indeed beneath a blanket, wedged between the wall and room’s armoire. Hannibal stepped over to him and said gently,

“Will.”

Will pulled the blanket down, blinking in confusion. Hannibal permitted Winston to leave the spot he’d been told to wait at, and the faithful companion immediately ran over to see Will, tail wagging. The dog sniffed over Will’s face, paws prancing in agitation as it tried to understand what its stressed master was doing on the ground, smelling of fear and sadness.

“Will, you know I do not suffer self-pity.” He was careful to keep his tone calm, and nonjudgemental. “But I am aware that you are under more stress than you are accustomed to, that you have been subjected to emotions I shall never experience…” He pulled Will to his feet. “And I am willing to overlook what I consider to be weakness.”

He was needling Will simply to have a reaction—anger, disbelief—knowing that the younger man needed to be removed from his own thoughts. Progress could not be made with pity or fear. 

“I don’t deserve this,” Will choked out, voice full of sorrow as his beautiful eyes began to fill with tears.

“The scars, my love?”

The words were distorted due to Will’s emotions and injuries, but Hannibal was able to pick them out without trouble. “I don’t deserve to have everyone staring at me. I don’t want notoriety. I want to fix boat motors.”

Hannibal was certain that Will could tell his comforting wasn’t genuine, but shushed and held him regardless, careful not the touch any injured part of the other man’s body. Winston let out a loud whine, resting its head on Will’s thigh as it tried to find the source of its master’s distress. Will continued crying against Hannibal’s neck, the sobs shaking his slender body violently. Hannibal considered that Will’s emotions were not from self pity, but that of a man fearing for his life. Not in the same respect as men and women who’d begged Hannibal and Abigail to spare them, but of someone who had finally realised the gravity of the life he once knew and no longer had. Hannibal had felt that way once, though he’d been considerably younger at the time.

Hannibal could hear Tony had entered the room behind them and a segment of his attention gauged how the situation might look, considering that this might be the moment the nurse would realise that he and Will were more than friends.

“We’re not alone,” he murmured to Will, allowing his lover to make the decision to show as much of their relationship as he wished.

“Do you need more painkillers?” Tony asked as Will pulled away, wiping at his eyes.

“Sedative,” he said thickly. 

Tony’s eyes met with Hannibal’s briefly, looking for permission, which Hannibal gave with a slight nod. With the confirmation, Tony smiled and agreed to Will’s request.

“No problem, Mr Graham.”

Hannibal carefully escorted Will back to the bed while the nurse went to retrieve the necessary bottle and syringe.

“Say you won’t leave me,” Will begged, his voice pained.

“I am bound to you Will. You needn’t worry.” He brought Will’s hand to his lips, aware that the gesture would comfort and reassure the other man of his commitment. How ironic they’d ever spent time where Hannibal had to continue to pursue Will. “You couldn’t push me away if you tried.”

*****

Will watched drowsily from the chair his agent usually occupied as Hannibal changed the sheets of the bed; while he’d not had a steady diet during his time in captivity, he’d been fed only highly processed foods and as a result, his body was attempting to detox itself of the chemicals. His sweat was awful and he knew Hannibal was suffering from it. He’d showered already—propped up on a teak bath stool while Hannibal briskly rubbed him down with soap and a loofa—and was now resting in a fluffy bathrobe, feet tucked into warm slippers.

He was able to walk to the bed on his own now—his energy was still very low, but in short amounts it wasn’t anything that required assistance. Having this new independence was something that Will was certainly celebrating—he had walked over to the windows with Abigail yesterday afternoon and then to the bedroom door as she left for the night.

Hannibal gave him a gentle kiss

“I shall try to return by midnight, Will. Abigail shall spend the night with you so you are not alone.”

He nodded, feeling relief that Hannibal had managed to stall his debriefing by yet another day. He knew that it was partially centred around Hannibal’s own sense of entitlement

Another gentle kiss on his forehead and then one on his lips before Hannibal pulled away

 

 

*****

Beverly had asked to speak to Will and he’d been very excited for the first few seconds, then panicked at the realisation she would see him. Before giving permission for her to enter the bedroom, Will instructed Brauer via the whiteboard to keep the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed. His stomach twisted in knots as she was let in, an aching feeling of having missed her for the past three months.

“Hey, Graham. How are you doing?” she asked, her voice casual, which gave him some relief.

He nodded slightly, keeping his face turned just enough so that she couldn’t look at his still healing wounds.

“Good.” She was smiling, her teeth bright in the dark, before she sobered. “I wanted to apologise for not answering the phone right away. It was very unprofessional of me.”

He quickly wrote on his whiteboard and held it up for her to see.

// _Are you going to be reprimanded for it?_ //

She gave a slight shrug, but he could tell that the answer was ‘yes’, most likely in a way that wouldn’t be reflected on her work transcript. “Have to take some unpaid days off for it, repeat some protocol training…it’s going to be marked on my file with an official reprimand.”

He nodded, imagining her fellow agents frowning at her, at her higher-ups shaming her with their disappointment, of Purnell _lecturing_.

“If you’re mad at me, I understand.”

He shook his head, then wrote,

// _He was waiting for me_ //

// _Even if you’d answered right away, he was waiting for me_ //

// _Still would have gotten me_ //

“And I still feel like shit that I didn’t get help to you sooner.” A morose edge had taken to her words. “Your boyfriend told me to start my days off today and I wanted to see you before I go home.”

// _How long_ //

“Four days unpaid. I’ll report tomorrow morning at the Justice Department for my first six hour course on agent protocol. Then when I come back to work they’ll decide if I’m still fit to work your man’s detail.”

// _He’ll keep you_ // Will assured her.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. This is my new number.” She held out a folded piece of paper that looked as though it had been torn out of a notebook and he took it slowly, careful not to show the side of his face. She smiled at him, earnest. “Get well, Graham.”

He raised his hand slightly from the bed in a small wave. She left, giving Brauer a small nod of acknowledgment, who returned the gesture.

Will spent the day in and out of sleep, breaking only to drink the meal replacements that his nurse brought him, stretch his legs, and take the occasional piss. Abigail had stopped by briefly to talk with him, but he’d been convinced she was a hallucination, so he’d fallen back asleep as she’d placed an extra blanket over his shoulders; when he awoke and found the blanket still in place, he’d felt a moment of guilt for not having believed she was real. And he felt no relief that she’d at least understand that he was not himself, that she had probably already excused him for the slight.

The evening was remarkably quiet and he’d received a phone call from Hannibal, who’d spoken briefly about his trip and of his annoyance with Putin’s administration, that he was seriously considering sending American troops to Ukraine. Will was grateful that this was their version of small talk, that he could just make noises of agreement or disagreement because he wasn’t expected to contribute to the conversation. And he was also grateful that there was no desire to say ‘I love you’ between them when they were being listened to—Will didn’t need to hear the words to know that beneath all of Hannibal’s talk of military power and the turbulence on Air Force One, the sentiment was there, unsaid.

Brauer had made a roaring fire before leaving on a dinner break and Will started to feel drowsy after a few minutes with the sounds of crackling logs, when a side panel of the wall by the bathroom door suddenly pushed out and Will startled; he was aware that there was a secret White House passage way that the agents used in that part of the wall, but he’d only watched Agent Brauer enter it, so it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. And the person who exited was the figment of a nightmare.

“Oh. Hello.” Abel Gideon seemed surprised to see Will. “Shall I leave?”

Will stared at the man, afraid that blinking would give the man enough time to rush him and attack—which he knew was stupid, but he kept picturing the murders of Gideon’s wife and in-laws very graphically.

“I’m Abel Gideon, former Lieutenant Governor of Maryland and current assistant speech writer to the First Lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Gideon smiled and sat down in the chair by the window. “Hannibal’s flight has been delayed for a few hours. I saw on the news that he’s getting quite the hero’s welcome from your return—everyone loves the thought that he’d so selflessly take care of the country and you. And it’s only two years away from Primaries—we have to start appealing to the voters now.” Gideon’s eyes evaluated him. “I assume your recovery has been going well, otherwise he wouldn’t leave you on your own. He stays very close to the House now, thought that might be for security reasons. Abigail, too.”

Will felt as though the scream he wished to give was trapped in his throat.

“Is that what your face really looks like? It’s much more tragic than I’d expected. Did you ever research that I’d planned to go to school for plastic surgery?”

Will had and now his thoughts were reeling in mild panic about Gideon wielding a knife.

Continuing the one-sided conversation, Gideon began to play with his tie. “Abigail bought this for me. When she was eight. Told me she’d picked it out herself. It was the exact sort of tie I’d pick for myself. My wife couldn’t pick out ties for me. Had no idea what sort of taste I preferred.”

 _‘Do you think of her as a wife?’_ Will wanted to ask, a growing dread at the potential for what Gideon might answer.

Oblivious to what Will was thinking, the other man continued, complaining to Will. “Hannibal has me spying on her. It’s dreadful. You’ll talk to him about that, won’t you? As her stepfather? I can’t refuse him—I’m his guest.” Gideon’s eyes shifted to Will, his head tilting slightly. “Is it nice to be part of their family? I will admit, it stung to be so quickly forgotten by Abigail once you came here, but I can’t blame her. You fit a certain archetype I am unable to fulfill in her life.” He gave a loud exhale and added in explanation, “The secondary caregiver.” Will felt a wave of relief that Gideon wanted to be a _father_ and not a _husband_. Gideon sat up a bit straighter and a smug look crossed his face as he folded his hands in his lap. “But I bought her a puppy. She’s always wanted one. I never forgot that. I think their yard was too small in Baltimore to accommodate for an animal.”

Gideon was silent for so long that Will wondered if this was some horrible dream his brain had come up with. He knew his encephalitis was in remission at this point, but that didn’t mean his mind wouldn’t come up with something to further traumatise him.

“You’ll be the first male spouse of any president. That’s quite the feather to put in your cap—“

The door to his bedroom opened and Abigail entered, her footsteps light as she made her way over to his bed, then did a double-take upon seeing Gideon.

“Uncle Abel. Hello,” Abigail greeted, looking surprised, but not alarmed.

“Hello. I snuck into the room through the passageways. You should have someone fired for that.” Gideon’s proposal suggested that he had difficulty filtering out the thoughts that really ought to be kept to himself, that possibly he was unable to give impromptu lies.

“I shall,” she assured him, a small smile appearing on her lips. She turned to Will and sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you? Rest well?”

He nodded slowly, hand gripping hers hard in the hopes of communicating his discomfort about having Gideon alone in a room with him. She seemed to understand and calmly said,

“Uncle Abel, we should really let him rest. If you go now, I’m sure they’ll never know you were missing.”

“Of course, Abigail.” Gideon stood and nodded his head to Will. “I hope we can talk again later, Mr Graham.”

Back through the passage door as silent as a ghost, Gideon left and they were left alone; Will’s hand still gripped Abigail’s tightly, his heart beating wildly and he left go of her long enough to retrieve his whiteboard and dry-erase marker off the nightstand. 

“Don’t worry, he’s medicated. And he’s not really interested in hurting any of us.”

//BRAUER// he wrote frantically.

“Okay.” Her voice was still calm, as though she didn’t want to make a big deal of what she perceived to be his overreaction to the situation.

She leaned out of the bedroom door and spoke softly to the agent stationed outside and Will wiped off the whiteboard with his heel of his palm. When Abigail returned to the bed, she took him by the hand and sat with him in silence, not offering pity, but certainly the comfort that he craved. Brauer reached the room seven very long minutes later and she asked quietly,

“Want me to stay?”

He shook his head and she gave his hand one final squeeze before leaving. His agent was eating a bowl of noodles, something that smelled like it was from the Vietnamese takeout place that was popular with White House employees, and Will’s mouth watered. The bowl was cupped in his hand and he frowned, mouth half full, asking, “You okay, Graham?”

//Block the passageway//

//Please//

“Sure.” He set down the bowl of noodles and the chopsticks on the nightstand, making his way over to the passageway. Brauer grabbed the chair he’d been sitting in and dragged it in front of the passageway, glancing back at Will. “That okay? I can’t leave it like this while I’m gone, but I can block it while I’m here. Safety protocol—we have to be able to reach you or sneak you out if needed.” A sympathetic look softened his eyes. “Dolarhyde won’t get in here.”

Will didn’t appreciate token gestures, left with a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked away, unable to stand the pity in his agent’s eyes. Will was nothing more than the impotent invalid, absolutely powerless. 

Abigail joined him again almost an hour later, dogs at her side and a comforter in tow. She’d already changed into her night clothes and had her father’s dressing gown wrapped around her. Brauer was dismissed for the night and the chair was moved back as Abigail directed the dogs to lie down on the thick rug in front of the fireplace. Will shifted over to the side of the bed Hannibal usual slept on and Abigail sat beside him, her comforter draped over herself so that she wasn’t under the covers with him. She plugged her phone charger into the outlet hidden behind the nightstand on her side and after confirming he was comfortable, began to fiddle around with her phone. He wondered if she was typing notes for something later as he doubted she had anyone to text, aside from Hannibal, who was probably in the middle of whatever he’d left the White House for. Will lie down, staring at the dark ceiling without much interest.

While the quiet and lack of light have been intimidating or upsetting, the presence of another person was enough to quell any nerves that might have been unsettled. Occasionally, Abigail’s hand would reach over and come to rest on his shoulder. He turned to look at her each time and she’d smile down at him before returning her attention to the screen of her phone. They continued this ritual for about an hour before she finally plugged her phone into the charger on the nightstand, and lie down beside him, saying nothing. His hand found hers and he squeezed it as a way to say ‘goodnight’ and she squeezed back; Abigail fell asleep fairly quickly, but he was still on edge from his encounter with Gideon, and every shadow and fucking noise in the room had him flinching. When Hannibal finally entered the room around midnight, he felt a wave of relief. Abigail could keep Gideon at bay, but Hannibal would physically be able to stop him if the situation arose. Will didn’t like to be so dependent on someone, but he was willing to turn over matters of his personal safety to someone else.

He tried to untangle himself from Abigail’s hold—she’d rolled over in her sleep and slung an arm around him—but she made noises of irritation in her sleep and he was worried of waking her, so he held still until Hannibal approached the bed. Hannibal loomed over them both, silent and still. Will reached up to him and placed his hand on the cannibal’s stomach, flexing his fingers slightly; he could sense that Hannibal was not coming to bed and he hoped his physical contact would be enough to sway the president to change his mind.

“I cannot stay, Will. I am needed urgently downstairs.” He stroked Will’s hair and reassuringly added, “It’s Russia.”

Will relaxed, the unspoken dread of Dolarhyde having caused his gut to tighten momentarily. Hannibal leaned over him then to gently kiss Abigail’s forehead; Will breathed in as deeply as possible while Hannibal’s body was over him—he missed the scent of the other man’s aftershave and skin. Abigail mumbled something and then exhaled against Will’s shoulder in a content sigh.

When Hannibal pulled away, he lifted a hand towel Will had kept on the nightstand for wiping his mouth after drinking his meal replacement shakes; upon carrying over to the clothing hamper in the bathroom, Hannibal paused and smelt the air before returning to the bed.

“What was Abel doing in here?” His voice was low, controlled.

“He got through the passageway,” Will said as quietly and clearly as possible.

“You’re safe. I shall have his access panel shut immediately.” Hannibal’s hand caressed Will’s face. “Do you trust me, Will?”

“No,” he said gently, kissing Hannibal’s palm.

“I shall see you in the morning. Rest.”

Will closed his eyes and was asleep before Hannibal had left the room.

*****

Rinaldo Pazzi finished the last of the sponge cake his beautiful wife, Allegra, had served for breakfast along with his coffee; Sunday mornings involved sweets and pastries to eat, rather than a heartier meal as he would not be working outside amongst the trees today. Allegra was intently reading the morning newspaper on her tablet, as she felt a digital subscription was better for the environment; he preferred having a hard copy of his news, but he had wanted to keep her happy and had agreed to reading it online instead. One of her legs was tucked up against her chest and she was wearing the shapeless blue sweater her sister had knitted for her three years ago; the house had a slight chill that morning, and he thought he might check the roof again to make sure nothing was loose and allowing cold air inside. She would complain he that should leave the task for the younger men he hired and he would need to prove her wrong, which would result in him on the roof, fumbling around for a few hours in the cold. Then he’d go to bed sore and she would have the good grace not to tease or chide him for it.

Rinaldo dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and as he reached over to pour more coffee into his cup, she looked up at him.

“Rinaldo, we should send a card to the embassy or to the White House for Mr Graham. We met him and he took the picture of us with the President and his daughter.”

They’d closely followed the news of Graham’s kidnapping and subsequent fortunate rescue—Rinaldo, being a former chief inspector, had expected only a grim outcome. He found the political element of the crime very intriguing and had been forced to research aspects to completely understand what had led to the events that unfolded.

Rinaldo’s tongue was scalded slightly by the coffee and he made a face. “He receives so much mail—he will never see it.”

“It’s the thought that counts. Look, I have painted one already.”

She gestured to the sketchbook she’d left on the edge of the table. The bottom half of the topmost sheet of watercolour paper was painted with familiar yellow.

He smiled. “Lemons.”

Abandoning the coffee to allow it time to cool, he kissed her cheek and then her forehead as he walked past her to the kitchen sink, carrying their plates.

“Should we write our message in Italian or English?” she asked, aware she’d left him no room for further argument.

“I think Italian. No sense in putting on airs,” he said, rinsing off the dishes. The window above the sink overlooked the lemon fields and he studied the leaves shaking in the wind. “Lecter will translate it for him.

“I think I shall make a card for the President as well. And his daughter. For their good fortune” she mused, her face turned towards him as he came back to the table.

He could tell from the look in her eyes that she was hoping for his approval and he touched her face with the back of his fingers as he glanced away from the window beside their kitchen table.

“Ah, Allegra—always thinking with your heart.”

“Kiss me,” she murmured, setting the tablet down.

He smiled and leaned closer to her. “How could I deny you anything?”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hannibal’s Birthday! I want to thank everyone for sticking with me and this story. I cut this chapter in half to get it out quicker, but things should be updated more frequently from now on.
> 
> +The White House does have its own microbrewery! This started with President Obama’s first term, with a homebrewing kit the President bought with his personal funds. White House Honey Ale is the first beer to known to have been brewed at the White House; there are now White House Honey Blonde Ale, White House Honey Porter, and White House Honey Brown. Through the Freedom of Information Act, the recipes are available online and on The White House Blog. The honey for the beer is produced in the White House Beehives!


	5. Chapter Five

Abigail arrived at the Governor’s Mansion through the backyard, using an adjacent alleyway that the Secret Service had determined would provide the most privacy for her coming and going from the house. Under the cover of darkness, she traipsed through the snow, Barney at her side, two agents in front and two in back. Franklyn greeted her at the backdoor, his hands jerking slightly as he stopped himself from pulling her into a hug; Abigail thought of people in two classifications: those she could physically take on in a fight and those she could outwit in a fight. Franklyn fit neatly into both of those categories and thusly, she’d never felt intimidated at his nature of wanting physical contact to express happiness. Many of her relatives were the same way, after all. However, she did try to limit him to the overly long handshake instead of gestures considered friendly, intimate. Tonight however, she was in a good mood and didn’t want to create a situation where he might take to moping, so she took both of his hands in hers, chatting with him until Budge made himself known, greeting her with a firm, possessing handshake, leaning in to press his cheek to hers, as though they had the kind of familiarity to do that kind of thing. She would have been an idiot not to see that Budge was competing for her attention and she smiled broader, knowing it would be a fun night. Franklyn was left pleased, his focus turned to offering the Secret Service agents coffee and desserts while the Governor took her coat and the fur scarf she’d bundled herself in.

The governor directed her to a dark wooded library room, leather chairs positioned around a massive stone fireplace. She remembered the room distantly from when she was a child—she and her father had only come to the Governor’s Mansion on a handful of occasions, all of them formal affairs that required publicity shots of Maryland’s First Family there. She could picture Abel standing by the fireplace, smiling and pointing inside, telling her Santa came down the chimney; she remembered her six-year old self informing him that Santa wasn’t real. They’d never come back after Abel killed his family.

She took her seat by the fireplace and watched as the last of her agents left the room to give her and the two men some semblance of privacy. Budge had brought their glasses of champagne from the kitchen and once they were all comfortably settled, he raised his glass.

“To Will Graham’s safe return,” Budge said with a small smile.

“To Will,” Franklyn agreed.

Abigail delighted in the toast, thinking of how Will deserved a national holiday for his bravery and triumph, but that champagne was a good start. Abigail made small talk with the governor, biding her time before Franklyn was dismissed casually to retrieve the dessert and champagne bottle left in the governor’s kitchen.

“They’ll take another three minutes to finish and then he’ll take at least another five to plate them.” Budge leaned in, the interest on his face naked. “Tell me _everything_. I’ve heard it’s quite a story.”

She leaned in as well, wanting to keep her voice as quiet as possible, knowing that there was still a chance that Secret Service or Franklyn might overhear. “Will is recovering exactly as his doctors have said. He’s a little worse for the wear, but he’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Budge made a slight face, apparently not concerned with Will’s actual wellbeing. “I want to know how he was rescued.”

“He killed one of his captors, took their phone, and called the White House. He saved himself,” she emphasised, heart warm with pride.

“How impressive.”

“The Secret Service was able to locate him based on the cellphone signal and sent in the extraction team sent for him, but he did fight his way out of part of it. I don’t know all the details,” she admitted. The White House was still refusing to provide much information due to it being an ‘ongoing investigation’, which had upset the media greatly.

“I’ve heard something was wrong with his face. That someone took a knife to it.”

She nodded, her eyes shifting over to see that one of the Secret Service agents had leaned past the door frame briefly to check if everything was all right; she continued talking. “His face will be like that forever.

He looked at her curiously. “And that makes you happy?”

“Oh, yes. Scars remind us what has happened. His shall remind us all of what he sacrificed for our family.” She smiled. “It is proof of love and life.”

“What are Mason Verger’s scars a reminder of?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes penetrating and uncomfortably bright.

She sat up a little straighter and said very calmly,  “Mason Verger did that to himself.”

“I’m certain that he did.” There was enough in his expression to indicate that he didn’t believe that was the whole story. “Why do you hide your scar, then?”

“Because people don’t deserve to look at it. Will’s face is a trophy. People don’t realise that my scar is, too.” She felt something bold within her and decided to ask, “Would you like to see it?”

He gave a nod as his eyes went to her scarf; she was careful to loosen the knot enough that the entire matter didn’t come off entirely, simply slid open.

“The President did an excellent job putting you back together.”

Abigail couldn’t hide her pleasure at knowing she was something altogether precious for her father. “I am his masterpiece.”

Budge’s eyes met hers again as she put her scarf back in place. “And Will Graham?”

“Dolarhyde stuck a knife through his face. Messed up his lip, cheek, and part of his nose.”

“Will he need plastic surgery?” The question seemed rhetorical.

“Absolutely not. We won’t let him.”

“Your father doesn’t want him to change?”

“Will is perfect. He’s perfect and he shouldn’t have to change.” She felt her heart melt at the way he looked while sleeping, face partially covered with bandages. “He’s beautiful the way a sunrise is beautiful—”

Franklyn entered the room once more, carefully balancing a tray with the champagne glasses, and slices of something rich and chocolate, so he did not notice Abigail and Budge lean away from one another into less conspiratorial positions.

“I shall buy us tickets to the Itzak Perlman concert next month,” Budge announced loudly, more to the room than to her. “Allow you time out of the house.”

She nodded, accepting her plate from Franklyn. “You understand that they’ll refuse me to be seen with you?”

“We’ll bring Franklyn along. A chaperone.”

“Very well. Have the date and time sent to my office.”

Franklyn looked at her apprehensively. “Oh, will your dad be okay with that?”

“I’m an adult and he respects my decisions,” she explained honestly. “And I’m certain he won’t have a problem with the company I decide to keep.” That part was definitely a lie.

“It’s just with…” Franklyn looked uncomfortable. “The Will Graham story.”

“She’s not involved with him, Franklyn. That’s an unfounded rumor.” Budge’s tone was judgmental, as though he wanted to shame Franklyn for not just swallowing anything the White House fed the masses.

“Right.” It was obvious from the look he was giving her, he wanted to ask about the video clip from the article. “It’s just that—“

“Franklyn, she’s stated before quite clearly that she’d not involved in any romantic liaison with Mr Graham. The White House put out an official press release.” Budge raised an eyebrow at his assistant, challenging him to disagree.

“Will is just a very good friend. I know that from the outside, it looks like something else. But it’s not,” she assured. “Besides, I’m not…interested in relationships.”

Franklyn still didn’t look convinced and Budge gave her a very unreadable expression as he sipped his champagne, so she occupied herself with her own drink and looked at the fireplace. That was true, she supposed. At least not until she figured out what it was she wanted with other humans. Friendship was one thing, as she could maintain a certain level of distance from the other person; having sex was still a bit tricky to navigate, but so far she’d been able to keep Sutcliffe at a distance as well, apart from their little liaisons, which she intended to end the moment she found a viable replacement. But to have an emotional attachment to someone, to see that depth of need like what her father felt for Will almost looked like weakness sometimes. And for that matter, was she capable of having a relationship with someone else?

She continued with her champagne, noting that indeed it was a quality she’d grown accustomed to with her father’s expensive tastes. Franklyn was filling the silence with talk of how friendly Will had been the evening that he and the governor had attended the dinner at the White House, and Abigail nodded and smiled encouragingly as she tried the chocolate cake.

After another hour, her agents gave her an opportunity to declare it was time for her to return home. If she was going to foster this sense of friendship between herself and the governor, she was going to play this game slowly to ensure she didn’t make any missteps that her father might find fault in later. As she stood at the back door of the mansion, putting on her coat and furs, she could tell from the look on Franklyn’s face that Budge would most likely receive a lecture afterwards about being associated with her newfound reputation for affairs with older men. Which would no doubt prompt Budge to spend more time with her, just to spite his assistant. That was an oddly satisfying thought—almost like they were fighting over her.

Budge took her hands in his. “Until we meet again.”

“Until then.”

*****

That evening, Hannibal helped Will into the sitting room, holding his arm out for Will to hang onto as support while he shuffled his feet across the carpeted floor. Hannibal abhorred television in the bedroom, which meant when the President brought a set of DVDs to be watched, Will had to get out of the chair he’d been relaxing in. Brauer had already left his shift for the day and Tony had assured Will that he would be back in the morning as well, with new stretches and exercises to try. As much as Will wanted his independence back, he hated the physical therapy aspect of it. But at the moment, he wasn’t dwelling on the things that usually filled him with stress. He’d been doped up on anti-anxiety medication, given a mild sedation, and a nice round of painkillers that had softened and muted the entire world around him, which was something he knew should alarm him, but couldn’t truly bring himself to care.

As Will sat down on the sofa, Hannibal carefully tucked a throw blanket around his shoulders, and one over his legs and feet. Hannibal had said something about Abigail being ‘out-to-dinner’ and Will could only hope with a distant anxiety that it wasn’t a euphemism for killing people to eat them, that she was truly just having dinner somewhere. With people who liked her. And that maybe she liked them, too. She needed a friend. Someone whom she could spend time with that wasn’t her father or himself. Will was keenly aware of her loneliness and that it was starting to manifest itself in Abigail as a lack of confidence.

Hannibal sat down beside Will, the weight of his body on the sofa cushion causing Will to tip slightly towards him.

“Date night,” he tried to say as he shifted his body closer to Hannibal.

Hannibal gave him an adoring smile, brushing aside Will’s hair from his forehead before toggling through the DVD’s menu with the remote in his hand. “One of my favourite shows. It was cancelled, but I managed to make contact with the producers and get a copy of the DVDs that were not made available to the general public.”

Will tried to make a face of disbelief; Hannibal had often stated that he wasn’t very impressed with television and while he knew he watched it on occasion, Will had been under the impression that it was simply to stay current with popculture should anyone try to slip him up with a question.

// _You have a favourite tv show?_ // he wrote on the white board Hannibal had brought along for him.

“One or two.” Hannibal selects the first episode. “I think you will enjoy it as well. Subtle and clever.”

// _Like u?_ //

Hannibal’s nose wrinkled slightly. “You know I dislike like laziness, Will. It takes just as much effort to write the full word as it does the letter.” He wiped the white board clean. “It is named ‘Rubicon’.”

Will slouched in his seat and rest his head against Hannibal’s shoulder; Hannibal’s arm wrapped over Will’s shoulder protectively, which made Will smile. This particular closeness had never come to them naturally in their relationship—Will had always felt so self conscious to seek out affection, always chastising himself for wanting something Hannibal would no doubt consider too juvenile, too needful. But at the moment, Will was set on taking any form of comfort he could find and pleasantly, Hannibal was playing along. Or perhaps he wanted this, too. Will couldn’t tell anymore.

Within the first ten minutes of the show, Will took his whiteboard and scrawled,

// _The main character is a troubled consultant named Will?_ //

Will then added in good humour, // _Am I helping you live out a fantasy?_ //

“Hush. Watch the show.” Hannibal kissed his temple and took away the white board from Will.

Will smiled as best he could, very pleased he’d been able to sufficiently amuse and distract the other man, shifted closer to Hannibal, and slipped a hand under the hem of the soft sweater Hannibal wore, fingers soaking in the warmth of Hannibal’s stomach under the shirt he wore beneath. Will tried to follow the plot as best he could, forcing his eyes to track the movement of each character on the screen, but soon he found he only had the energy to listen to the dialogue as he rested his eyes. And with Hannibal’s fingers sifting through his hair, sleep soon overtook him.

*****

When Will awoke the following morning, he found himself in bed and Hannibal asleep beside him; the bed was warm and he flexed his toes under the sheets, listening to the sound of the central heating blowing quietly into the room. His face was beginning to hurt and he probed at the minimal bandages, wincing at the ache in his upper jaw. One of his molars had been removed due to the damage and now down a total of three teeth lost, he considered that he’d be facing more dental work than he’d ever intended. There was a gap where his lip had once covered the now absent tooth and his fingers probed the area with perverse fascination, feeling the gap and the dull ache of the open wound.

He sat up and before Hannibal could properly wake, he made his way slowly to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. In the mirror, he studied his face. Now that he knew what to expect, he wasn’t left with the breathless horror at the injuries. Yes, there was definitely a missing part of his upper lip, exposing his gum and the gap where the molar should have been—and when the swelling went down, he knew the space would look larger, show his incisor. There was a bulging and bruised scar on his upper cheek where Dolarhyde had started to split his skull in two. He hypothosised that a plate had been put in his face to repair the damage, remembering the knife in his face as though it had happened years ago. The only way to fix this type of scarring was through plastic surgery and with a sinking realisation, Will knew that even with the best doctors available to him, he’d never look the same as he had before. That part of his identity was lost to him now.

Finally, the pressure on his bladder was too much and he left the mirror to relieve himself, and then avoided looking at his reflection as he washed his hands. When he turned off the bathroom light and opened the door, he saw Hannibal was sitting up in the bed, his body held tensely as he stared at Will. Oh, maybe he’d been worried something was wrong with Will and had been deciding whether or not to check on him. Coming back to the bed, Will saw the other man relax slightly at the sight of Will otherwise well and when Will slipped under the blankets, he sighed contentedly as Hannibal moved closer in the bed to lie beside him.

His words came out quiet and slow so that Hannibal would understand him. “Sorry I fell asleep during your show. It was good.”

“We’ll rewatch it tonight.”

He nodded and Hannibal took Will’s hand in his, kissing his palm.

“I love you, Will.”

Will didn’t answer, instead pressing his palm to Hannibal’s and linking his fingers with the other man’s.

“I was dreaming of the two of us. You were teaching me how to tie flies,” Hannibal told him.

Will raised his eyebrows as much as he could without bothering his muscles and Hannibal leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Will’s lips.

“You were a very good teacher. Perhaps we’ll spend time later today working on your hobby.”

Will gave a small nod. That sounded both relaxing and productive, a break from the monotony of sitting around in bed most of the day. Hannibal was shirtless and Will pressed his fingers to the hot, bare skin. It still seemed so surreal to be with him—like they’d never been apart, like they’d never expected to be together again.

The phone on the bedside table rang and Hannibal stole a quick kiss from Will’s lips before rolling over to answer it. It was the customary morning wakeup call, something Will found very grounding, reassurance that this was all very real. In the silence of the room, Will could hear the officer on the other end clearly.

“Good morning, President Lecter. The time is 5:45 AM, the date is February Twenty-Seventh, Two-Thousand Fourteen, the current temperature is fourteen degrees Fahrenheit, wind chill at zero, current wind speeds at ten mph, military activity at ‘relaxed’.”

“Thank you very much,” Hannibal replied.

“You’re welcome, President Lecter.”

“Have a good day,” Hannibal instructed.

“You as well, sir.”

Hannibal placed the phone back in its cradle and took Will into his arms. “At ten there shall be two doctors from Bethesda to check on you. I shall be there as well.” He kissed Will’s forehead. “Then you will be debriefed by my panel of advisors. You’ll be moved into the sitting room for the questioning.”

“Kidney?” he asked, trying not to wish for the heavy painkillers he’d been on.

“You needn’t say anything. It’s not on the official report. Only a few know about it and they will say nothing.”

Will dwelt on the feeling of Hannibal’s ankles tangled with his for a while and then frowned as he realised what the soldier on the morning phone call had said. “I’ve been home for ten days?”

Hannibal’s mouth had softened at Will’s usage of the word ‘home’. “Yes. The debriefing will be exhausting, but it is unavoidable. Shall I pick out something for you to wear?”

“Later.” Will could feel the shift in Hannibal’s body, that he’d be getting up and leaving for work, leaving Will alone in the bed.

“I’m afraid I must leave,” Hannibal said finally, confirming that the day was truly about to begin for them.

If he’d been able to, he would have begged for Hannibal to stay, but Will nodded again, stretching slightly.

“Get your rest, Will. And once your obligations for the day are finished, you may teach me how to make lures.”

As Hannibal walked away from the bed and towards the bathroom, Will considered that the last person who needed to learn an additional way to trick prey was Hannibal the Cannibal.

*****

Hannibal took breakfast alone with Abigail; he could tell from the tenseness of her body language that she had something weighing on her mind and he didn’t want to rush her into voicing it.

“I have been considering…” she said finally. “That Will needs to recover without the stress of being publicly outed. I am…I would rather that you didn’t publicly announce your relationship with him yet.”

He buttered the slice of toast, eyes lifting to look at her momentarily. “You would rather maintain the facade of his alleged affair with you?

“Will needs it. I can handle this right now. He would become a hermit if it becomes known which Lecter he’s truly sleeping with.” She frowned, looking conflicted as though she might be second guessing her choice. “Freddie will look like a fool later. And everyone else will have to cow to me, which isn’t terribly satisfying, but will force a large number of the media to cater to everything I want to do in the future. No one will dare paint me in a bad light ever again—they’ll look like bullies. It benefits all of us.”

He set the knife down and as with everything, allowed her a chance to turn back. “It will be some time before Will and I announce our relationship, Abigail. You might have to wait years for vindication.”

She nodded. “I will not admit to an affair. I will continue to deny it and when the truth is out, I will look steadfast in my story. A martyr for my family. And doesn’t everyone love that in a Kennedy?”

“I can’t say I am pleased with this decision, but I am willing to give you what you ask for.” He could think of at least three different ways to handle this, but if this was how she wished to burden herself, then he would at least have the amusement of seeing her suffer from her own decisions.

She smiled at him, relieved. “Thank you.”

*****

Abigail had joined Will for the evening while Hannibal finished recording a weekly address that would be uploaded to the White House’s website in the morning. He had been flipping through a stack of ‘get well soon’, ‘well wishes’, and ‘thinking of you’ cards that he’d been brought during lunch; there was also an assortment of gifts from Hannibal’s cabinet and White House staff, mostly candy and baked goods (they didn’t know the extent of his injuries) as well as a boxed set of ‘The Wire’ from Secretary Obama and ‘Twin Peaks’ from Hannibal’s troop of secretaries. Will knew that Hannibal would expect him to have thank you cards composed for the gifts, and he hoped that he could get someone from Abigail’s office to do it for him. He wasn’t ungrateful, but he was still very overwhelmed by it all.

Abigail’s eyes scanned the cards as she approached the bed. “I hope you're happy with yourself. I have chores again. Daddy won’t let anyone but Secret Service on this floor.”

Will tried to smile and she returned the expression.

She held out a small bowl with a spoon sticking out of it. “I brought you ice cream. Coffee flavoured.”

Will relaxed and hummed softly. That actually sounded really good. 

She sat down next to him on the bed, crossing her legs.“Want me to make it soupy?”

Will nodded.

She took the spoon and began to stir at the ice cream. “Daddy never allowed me to do this. He'd always tell me he would have to take it away if I…” She paused for a moment as she tried to think about it. “Or maybe it was Hobbs? I don't know. I wasn't allowed to do it. That’s all I know.”

Will didn’t want to probe into the unfortunate path both of her fathers had taken in her life and instead concentrated on organising the disarray on his bed, wanting to create at least some semblance of order. Finally, Abigail seem satisfied with the softened state of the ice cream and passed the bowl over to him. Relieved she wasn’t going to try to feed him, he took the spoon and tilted his head back slightly so that getting the dessert into his mouth would be easier.The ice cream was fucking cold, but pushing it towards the small gap his jaws could open and probing at it with his tongue made it the greatest treat he’d ever had, something a thousand times more flavourful than the paste-like substance he’d been eating since his return—he’d started to loathe ‘strawberry’ flavour at this point. He brought the spoon to his mouth a second time and the cold burned against his nerve sensitive teeth, but he refused to deny himself the dessert. Abigail was grinning, satisfied, and then busied herself with reading over his cards. 

“When I had braces, Daddy would have the orthodontist rush the stages so that I didn’t have to wear them as long,” she said finally when she took the empty bowl from him. She looked haunted. “It was very, very painful. But he made me the most delicious soups. High calorie.”

“A human smoothie.” The words left his mouth, pushing thickly past his clenched teeth.

“More like a gravy,” she corrected. “I know you don’t want anything made from…the rude. But I’m sure we could make an acceptable substitute with beef or pork meats. I give you my word that we won’t feed you anything that would offend you.”

“A body pudding.” He felt lightheaded.

She looked uncomfortable. “I just thought it might break up the monotony of the protein shakes. It’d taste like food.”

“I really am not ready for his cooking.”

Now it appeared she was searching for any way to convince him to eat—he couldn’t decide if it was control or concern. “I could stand and watch him make it.”

He shook his head as much as his injuries allowed. “It’s going to be too rich for my stomach.”

“I could have him write down the recipe and then give it to the kitchens so they make it instead. Or I could—“

“Ab...” He held up a hand to silence her, then began to write on his whiteboard. // _I really can’t stomach it. Just thinking about it is making me want to throw up._ //

“It’s just that Daddy’s concerned about your weight. And I am, too. You look so frail.”

// _I was starved for almost three months. It’s not going to come back overnight._ //

Then he added,

// _Please don’t worry_ //

“I can’t help it. I didn’t protect you.” She bit her bottom lip. “I’ve killed people simply because they irritate me. How can you expect me to be all right with the fact that someone actually harmed you? It was supposed to be me that was taken. That’s what I was told.”

// _Survivor’s guilt_ //

“You’re…” She seemed to be weighing her words as she used her fingertips to wipe away the writing on the board. “You’re not one of us yet. Not fully. Killing doesn’t come to you instinctually. Your ‘fight’ response isn’t as honed as your ‘flight’ response.” She wiped her fingers on the side of her skirt. “If it had been me, I would have—“

He shook his head violently, not wishing to hear what she wanted to fantasise as her response for how she would have solved the dilemma of being kidnapped. Just picturing her in the situation he’d been in for months was giving him anxiety because now that he knew Dolarhyde was still alive, there was a chance that she could still be taken.

// _Killing someone is the ugliest feeling in the world._ //

When his eyes met hers again, he felt them start to water as he saw that her own response was, _‘No, it isn’t.’_ Looking away from her, he only flinched a little when her hand came to rest on top of his.

“I’m sorry that you were put in that position. Where you had to do something that you weren’t comfortable with. That it’s made you feel as though you’ve lost your sense of self.” Her words came slowly and carefully, as though she was trying to parse out the exact words he wanted to hear. But he felt that she was being genuine, that a small, lost part of her ached to have someone say the same thing to her.

// _I’ve never seen pictures of you with braces_ //

“They’re called incognito braces—they go behind the teeth,” she explained.

Will had had braces at thirty and had hated them, always embarrassed when the orthodontist asked him what colour he wanted his bands to be, hating the joke, hating that he’d agreed to get his teeth aligned. Abigail laced her fingers with his and he closed his eyes, simply focusing on the feeling of her skin and knuckles and nails. 

“I love you.”

His eyes startled open and he looked at her.

“I wanted to say it so many times while you were gone and I couldn’t. So now I’m going to say it to you anytime it comes to me.” She let go of his hand and climbed off the bed, taking the empty bowl. “I do love you, you know. As much as Daddy.”

That night, he dreamt of being strapped to the waterboarding table, Hannibal standing over him with one hand pinching Will’s nose shut and the other hand holding a spoon full of melted human fat and flesh to Will’s mouth. Will woke up, his throat hoarse from screaming and head feeling as though it was being split in two from the way he’d tried to open his jaws fully. He was drenched in sweat and disoriented, he tried to flee the bed upon seeing someone rushing at him in the dark, panicking. But within moments, he realised he had only seen a Secret Service agent who’d entered to room upon hearing the noise and Hannibal was now dismissing them, that the bonds around his wrists were Hannibal’s hands holding him in place, that he was in the White House, not underground in a bunker.

Hannibal helped him into the bathroom, where he ran a hot bath; he’d been very understanding about Will’s new anxiety about spending too much time without being clean, a compulsion having been brought about from the state he’d been held captive in. Once assured that Will was calm enough to be left in the bath alone, he left to change the bedsheets. As Will watched him leave, he knew that even if it had only been a dream, there was too much truth to be completely overlooked.

*****

A belated Christmas was still wonderful, Abel decided as he brought Abigail another cup of the hot apple cider from the kitchen. Though there were no decorations, he felt that what was most important was that family was together, and he was their family. A fire was burning warmly in the fireplace and Abigail sat on the floor, while Hannibal sat on the couch; the growing puppy was sleeping faithfully against her knee, tiny paws twitching.

Abigail accepted the mug with a smile and he sat down on the floor across from her, despite his protesting joints. Mr Graham had not joined him— _“He is focusing on his rest, Abel,”_ Hannibal had told him—and Abel felt a selfish relief he didn’t have to share the Lecters any more than he already was. He had a cup of cider as well, resting on a stone coaster on the floor beside him and the large pile of presents that had been set out around them.

Abel smiled at Abigail as he passed her a small present from one of her former classmates, hoping that his anxiety was masked—he’d stopped taking his pills that morning and while he thought he was still a little foggy in the head, he was definitely more alert than he had been in years; the little white tablets had been pressed into the soil of the potted fern in his bedroom, to dissolve into the roots with the careful watering he scheduled for the plant. He knew if he was caught skipping his medication, the Secret Service would have grounds to deny him the chance to live at the White House, and as such, he’d have no where else to go but back to BSHCI, and he didn’t think he could bear the thought of that.

The small package contained a glass ornament for a Christmas tree, hand painted with little snowflakes and Abigail made a polite comment about it, then set it aside, accepting the next gift from him. He’d asked Hannibal if he could distribute the gifts and Lecter had graciously allowed him the privilege. Everything felt right to Abel, as though his life was finally on track and the way it was supposed to be. Certainly it would be better if he had a wife of his own and children, but this was a perfectly acceptable substitute.  

He drank his cider, eyeing his own stack of unopened presents to the side by his left knee. He’d already unwrapped a pen set that ten years ago would have seemed dull as a gift, but now was delightful. He planned to use it at his desk in Abigail’s office, a proof of his freedom—the criminal insane were forced to use soft pens that wouldn’t hurt others or themselves, or more often, felt tip pens that bled and smelt strongly. Many of his own personal belongings had been sold or stolen during his time locked up and as a result, he’d lost a few favoured pens that he’d used often during his time in office; they’d not been particularly expensive, nor important to him at the time, but now that they were gone, he’d been left to use whatever the East Wing or Abigail supplied him with.

A few times he’d found himself pausing to note the young First Lady’s reaction to a gift or something he’d said, storing the information away to write down later, and he’d feel a twinge of unease that he’d been conditioned so easily to document all of his observations about her. The notebook he’d been given by Hannibal to record Abigail’s comings and goings was left in his room, tucked in the back of his nightstand. He had, in fact, being recording his thoughts about her during the quieter moments of the day, not without guilt and he was careful not to reveal too much about her. He felt it was no different than reports he used to fill out as a lieutenant governor: words that glossed over the boring or unnecessary, carefully detached as he noted what might be a problem down the line. While he knew it wasn’t healthy for him to question Hannibal’s motives—he wasn’t _paranoid_ —he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the invasion into Abigail’s life by secretly reporting on what her father couldn’t see first hand.

She unwrapped a very lovely cashmere sweater from her father and stood momentarily to go to her father, kissing him on the cheek and thanking him for the sweater. Abel stared into the fire, wondering if it was definitely too late for him to become a father. Hannibal was sitting on the couch, reading over the book Abel had purchased for him, an Italian nonfiction on the Il Monstro case that had occurred in the eighties in Florence. He seemed lost in the pages and Abel smiled, very satisfied he’d picked such a good gift—aware of the other man’s interest in prominent crimes such as that of their local serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper, he’d taken the gamble that that particular topic would be of appeal to him. Though Abel thought that serial killing was such a grim fascination to have.

Abigail was still opening presents with great care as he handed them to her one by one: a very pretty scarf to add to her collection from her Aunt Caroline, an attractive leather belt from one of her numerous cousins, a new cellphone case from Miss Madchen, a collection of lavender scented soaps from Miss Lebeau. Abel sorted the paper into neat piles along with ribbons and bows, knowing how the Lecters were both sticklers for recycling, even if he couldn’t find it in him to care about such things—recycling had little meaning in a prison cell.

“Open your gifts, Uncle Abel,” Abigail prompted, pausing as she unfolded delicate tissue paper around some article of clothing.

“I don’t want to take away from your enjoyment,” he said, wanting to exercise as much self control as possible—he didn’t need to be the one tearing into his own things.

“Don’t be silly. I want to see what you’ve been brought.” She looked pointedly at the stack of neatly wrapped gifts the First Family had bought for him.

Unwilling to make it an argument, he took one of the smaller boxes and unwrapped it as she looked over a GWU sweatshirt that one of the Secret Service agents had bought for her. Inside was a bottle of cologne that made him pause in surprise.

“Ah.” He hadn’t thought about this particular item in years. “My favourite.”

“I remembered.”

“I’d forgotten,” he admitted, looking over the bottle. “What would I do without your memory?” The next larger box contained running shoes, his last name embroidered on the heel of both. “Oh, excellent. You and I will have to take runs together.” He thought of how out of shape he was. “Or in my case, jogs.”

“That’s what I thought. We can take the dogs with us,” she said cheerfully.

Gideon’s throat felt tight; as a rule, he hated exercise, but he hated even more the way medications and institutionalisation had made his body soft and flabby. The longer he spent here in the real world, the more he felt as though he was playing catch-up, that he was forced to make up for lost time physically and mentally.

“If you don’t like them…”

He realised he’d been silent too long and that had shown his cards, so he was quick to assure her that the gift was appreciated. “No, no. It was very thoughtful of you. And a good brand! I wouldn’t know what to pick for myself.”

He felt lost, disoriented for a moment and by chance glanced up at Hannibal, who was watching him from the couch. The hair on the back of his neck stood at the sudden primal fear of being stared at by something larger, stronger, and more powerful than him, which took him a few seconds to realise how ridiculous that was. Hannibal wasn’t a threat to him—he was being paranoid! No, that wasn’t right—he was just accustomed to considering other people to be threats after years of living around psychopaths and the occasional trigger happy orderly. He wasn’t paranoid. He wasn’t. Ah, but that was the biggest fear, wasn’t it? That he was actually insane and _did_ need medication to control who he was, that who he was wasn’t good enough for the White House that—

“It’s a shame we don’t have gingerbread men to eat right now,” he said, forcing a smile to his face as he looked away from the President.

“Let me call the pastry chef!” Abigail said enthusiastically, standing quickly which startled the puppy and headed over to the landline sitting by the family room’s front door.

The puppy came to Abel and sniffed at the box of shoes, before yawning and wandering over to Hannibal’s feet, where she whined, no doubt wishing to be picked up. Hannibal gave a firm and gentle ‘no’, nudging the puppy with his hand back in the direction of Abel. The puppy sniffed at Hannibal’s hand, but did return to Abel, looking up at him curiously. Abel pet the little animal as he listened to Abigail requesting the gingerbread men, trying not to let himself get caught up in worry and anxiety.

Within the hour, warm gingerbread men and hot chocolate had been delivered up to them, and he’d unwrapped all of his gifts, finding the rewards of books, clothing, an assortment of movies, a nice set of cufflinks, a few very refined ties, and two framed art prints. _‘Grown-up presents,’_ he thought with some amusement, not sure if he’d actually expected the toys he’d longed for as a child. Nothing from his parents, or sisters, who’d all pretended he’d died that night, too. Nothing from Secret Service, or his fellow co-workers, who ignored him for the most part. No, it was fine that only Abigail and Hannibal had given him things. In fact, it was better than fine. What could other people offer him?

Abel carried the armful of presents back to his room, in too good a mood to be anything but cordial with his agents. Perhaps he’d be able to achieve a balance, now that he was freeing himself of the medications that kept him so neutered and mind full of cotton. And with clearer thinking, he’d be an even more valuable asset to the Lecters, making himself a place within their world.

*****

“I have hired a psychiatrist for you,” Hannibal had announced as he dressed one morning. “It is a legal requirement—we did not have a choice.”

Will had frowned and grabbed for his whiteboard, writing quickly and then holding it out for the other man to see. // _I don’t want to talk to some shrink who’s going to sit there and stare at me and ask me how all this makes me_ _feel_ _._ //

“She won’t do any staring at all.” Hannibal’s brows had raised minutely as he tied the knot of his tie.

Will’s mind quickly processed the implications. // _She’s blind?_ //

“One of the few blind doctors in this country. She comes highly recommended, specialising in war-related PTSD and those burdened by their own injuries. I selected her because I knew you would not want eyes on you.”

Will had suspected that Hannibal had mostly not wanted someone else to see Will’s injuries, hoarding them as his own private interest. But Will had also been very grateful that he would not be forced to deal with the added pressure of what someone’s judgement on his physical appearance would be.

“You are only required to attend her until she declares you well—after that, you may decide if you wish to continue.”

// _Can you make her rubberstamp me?_ //

“If that is what you wish. Though it wouldn’t hurt to have one appointment with her.”

“Fine,” Will had replied, not content with the situation at all. 

Hannibal had come over to the bed and given him a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving, leaving Will to mull the situation over.

So when he met with Dr McClane a few days following, he was already in a standoffish mood about the entire situation. He wanted nothing more than to have her declare him fit, despite knowing that there was no way in hell anyone would consider him such. Hannibal had brought him into the attached sitting room, and Will had fussed with the throw blanket tucked over his legs and lap while he went to bring in the psychiatrist.

“Hi, Mr Graham. I’m Dr Reba McClane. It’s nice to meet you,” she greeted, announcing it to the room as he’d not given any indication to where he was.

“Hello,” he mumbled, self-conscious of his voice for the first time in days.

“Dr McClane, there is a seat for you approximately seven steps forward and to your right,” Hannibal informed her, his hands very pointedly not touching her with the presumption of assisting.

“Ah, thank you.”

She walked confindently, her cane scanning the space for her and she reached the chair without any problems, to which Will made the mental note that he would be able to present information to her in that manner.

“Will, I shall see you for lunch later,” Hannibal said.

Will nodded morosely, not looking at the other man; he knew his behaviour was petty, but he felt abandoned in the way he used to as a child when his father dropped him off at whatever school he was enrolled in at the time. He didn’t even want to know what the psychiatrist would say to _that_.

Hannibal shut the door behind him and suddenly every noise in the sitting room seemed too loud to Will. He held deathly still, not wanting to breathe. He felt trapped.

“I’m told you aren’t a fan of psychiatry,” Dr McClane stated pleasantly.

“I don’t like people poking around in my head.” He spoke slowly and carefully, not wanted to face the humiliation of having to repeat himself to her.

“That’s natural. Everyone worries about it.”

The central heating came on in the room and he watched her head turn towards the direction of the nearest vent, no doubt cataloguing the noise and new information.

“I’ve already read your file from 2012, when you were diagnosed with encephalitis, so I am aware of your experience with hallucinations due to illness, as well as other medical complications from encephalitis. I was also informed that you sustained a few physical injuries to your body during your time as a hostage.”

“Yes,” he agreed, defiantly not specifying what those injuries were, challenging her to ask.

“If at any point you feel like you need help, just tell me and I’ll get your nurse, understand.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s run through the basics: I’ll ask you some questions that help me get a baring on your cognitive abilities and will better allow me to understand what I can expect from you. This won’t take more than five minutes. Ready?”

He agreed and she began to ask him simple things, such as his name, date of birth, and where he was at the moment. He relaxed slightly, knowing she was checking for brain damage or delusions and confident she wouldn’t find any. Once that round of questioning ended and she stated that ‘everything checks out’, she proceeded to inform him about herself, her practise, and expertise. Will felt relieved that she wasn’t someone who treated him as though he was going to crumble and even found himself appreciating that she was straightforward about what he could expect from their sessions together. Not that he was yet willing to admit _that_.

She asked about his sleeping and he tried to sidestep everything that might be remotely interesting, such as the fact that he shared a bed with the President, sometimes the First Lady depending on who was home that night, that he was unable to get through a night without some form of sedation due to his nightmares.

She asked about his eating and he left it at, ‘There is a nutritional puree I’m eating right now’, not wanting to think about food or his fucked up intestinal tract.

She asked about his social interactions and he had never felt more embarrassed in his entire life that he didn’t have anyone other than Secret Service agents, a nurse, and two Lecters to talk to. And that if it had been up to him, he’d have only the Lecters. He simply didn’t answer the question.

When she began to ask the more probing questions, he fell silent, seeing the traps he was expected to walk into; instead he found himself staring at the clock behind her. Her expression revealed nothing about her thoughts, which made Will uncomfortable, unable to tell if she was frustrated, annoyed, or calculating. After an impolite amount of time started to pass with his silence, she changed her tactics.

“When I met the President this morning, he said he was going to be taking your dog on a walk during our session,” she said, her hands coming to rest atop her crossed knees.

Without thinking, he corrected, “Not…I let Abigail adopt him.” His chest tightened at the thought of Hannibal referring to Winston as Will’s. “His name is Winston.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s big, but he still thinks he’s a okay to sit in someone’s lap because Hannibal allows—“ Will almost said ‘the bed’, but managed to stop himself at the last moment. “—him up on the furniture, which isn’t something I train them to do. Any of the dogs I rescue. But he’s got a good coat of fur…fluffy tail.”

“Is he like a German Shepard?” she asked curiously.

“Uh, not quite. He’s more of mutt.” But when he considered the physical attributes and not what the physical appearance was, he adjusted his comments. “But same height about. Not as muscular in build. Facial structure is not as big as a German Shepard.”

“That’s great,” she said, smiling for the first time that session. “I love animals. In my practise I use therapy animals—rabbits mostly, but there is a miniature poodle I sometimes bring in. Ginger. She spends most of her time at a rehab facility for disabled veterans. If you ever feel more comfortable with Winston here in the room, you’re welcome to bring him. Or if you’d like me to bring the rabbits or Ginger, I can do that. Just let me know.”

“Did you train the service animals yourself?” he asked, unable to help himself from becoming engaged in the conversation.

“There are specialists who I contract with. They train the animals, though the rabbits all come home with me at the end of the day. They’re Flemish Giants.”

“I don’t know much about rabbit breeds.”

“I’ll have to bring one for you to meet at some point. They’re quite large.”

“Well, with a name like ‘Flemish Giant’, I’d hope so.” That got a smile out of her again and hoping to keep the conversation from becoming too much about him, he asked, “Do all your patients like therapy animals?”

“Not all. Those are the people I cook with.”

“Cook?”

“I have a kitchen in my office. I’ve found that people relax one of two ways: with food or with animals. So I sometimes spend my hour with a patient baking with them while we talk.”

“Very clever. I think Hannibal would appreciate that.”

“I’ve heard he’s quite the chef.”

“Quite the chef,” he echoed, hands clenching unconsciously at the thought.

“When you’re better, would you like to take our sessions in the kitchen? I’m sure I can have them secured for your privacy.”

“I need to think about it,” he admitted.

“Sure,” she agreed. “What have you be doing in the meantime while you recover? How have you been spending your free time?”

“Sleeping through a lot of it. The medications make me drowsy and I need to stay somewhere with little light—my eyes are still adjusting from…” He didn’t want to talk about the Box just yet. “I spent a lot of time in the absolute dark. My eyes aren’t used to full light yet.”

“So you haven’t been reading? Or engaging in other hobbies that might require your full sight?”

“Not really.”

“You are having problems with coordination?” she inquired.

“My fine motor skills haven’t been affected too bad. I can still write legibly. It looks the same as my handwriting always did.” But aside from his fly tying, there hadn’t been many things in his life that he considered to be hobbies. “But I don’t really have hobbies in the first place.”

“I have patients who’ve learned how to crochet—“

Will couldn’t help the scoffing noise he made, and regretted the sharp pain from the muscles in his face reacting to the expression.

“It’s very therapeutic, relaxing. It’s being used in prisons for anger management, because of the meditative values it has,” she insisted.

He was not able to picture himself making socks or whatever the hell people made by crocheting. “I’m not interested, sorry.”

“Okay, what about macramé?”

“That’s for hippies.”

At this, Dr McClane gave a small laugh. “I’m just making suggestions.”

“Crossword puzzles,” he proposed.

“That often leads to frustration. It’s good for brain activity, but unless it was something you already enjoyed, I wouldn’t recommend it. Something that engages the hands is preferable.”

He was at a loss for what he could do that might satisfy her requirements. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure.” Her hand touched her side and it occurred to him that her phone must have vibrated in lieu of an audible alarm. “Well, our hour is up. Unless you find someone else, I’ll be here same time next Tuesday. Just have someone notify me either way—you won’t hurt my feelings.”

As she stood from her chair, he said, “As long as you understand I’m not going to like talking, I can’t stop you from coming here.”

“Will, you are the one who is in charge here. If you want me to be your psychiatrist, I will be. If you don’t want me to be your psychiatrist, I won’t be.”

Will suddenly was faced with control being given over to him and while it was something he’d craved, there had also been comfort in letting Hannibal and Abigail decide things for him. He was quiet, but she didn’t seem to mind his lack of answer. There was a quiet knock on the door and then Hannibal stepped in. Will wondered how long he’d been waiting for the hour to be up so he could intrude. How _polite_.

“Dr McClane, may I walk you downstairs?” Hannibal offered, his eyes briefly meeting Will’s.

“Yes, thank you.” She collected her handbag and her cane, then turned in his direction and said, “Goodbye, Will.”

“Have a nice day,” he said quietly.

*****

Kade sat on the floor of the empty office space she’d commandeered in the Los Angeles Secret Service Field Office; her high heels had been tossed to the side unceremoniously and her nylons clung to the commercial grade carpet. She was surrounded by paperwork she’d requested for her current case: a young agent had been caught destroying counterfeit money without properly reporting it. The young woman was simply lazy and didn’t want the extra paperwork and didn’t seem to grasp that the policy was in place so that the Secret Service could analyse any new methods that counterfeiters might be using. Kade was going to fry this obnoxious little shit with so much paperwork and procedure that she’d regret being born.

Kade had the broken bottom end of a candycane in her mouth, as she’d been unable to find any breath mints in her purse, and her fingers shifted and shuffled stacks of papers into haphazard piles in something that resembled a timeline. There were also photographs from undercover agents who’d been tracking her activities and still frames from security cameras, which Kade was marking with a red sharpie, adding little notes and circling things of note. She’d question the accused agent later in the afternoon and she wasn’t looking forward to it—everyone thought they were real slick and would try to lie or omit details to make themselves look like they were victims of the system. Frankly, guilty agents were more frustrating to deal with than guilty criminals.

Her phone blipped a few times, indicating an incoming phone call from the one person Kade actually found herself eager to talk to. Unbidden, a smile came to her lips and she tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

“Vice President, what can I do for you this afternoon?”

“Is it warm out there?” Bedelia sounded bored, perhaps impatient.

“Not quite. But better than DC. I saw that there was light snow this morning.”

“It’s all melted to a dirty puddle. I can’t walk anywhere.”

“Just be thankful that you have an interior decorator where you are. All of the furniture in this building was made by inmates in prison wood shops.”

“A tragedy,” the Vice President replied, nearly sneering.

“The Secret Service operates on a shoestring budget. It doesn’t have to look good for the public or you.”

Bedelia made a small amused noise, not quite a laugh. “Have you had lunch?”

“No.” She was planning on having someone grab her some Subway—lately she’d been caught in an ugly cycle of Big Macs. 

“I know a little restaurant not far from where you are. Maybe thirty minutes away? I’ll call and have them hold a table for you.”

Yes, it would be nice to sit down somewhere, maybe look out a window at the people passing by. “What’s good to eat there?”

“I’ve never had their winter menu. I enjoyed the baked chicken.”

Kade wanted to protest, but had already lost interest in her work, stomach grumbling. “I’ll have to pay. Don’t want this to look like a bribe.”

“Naturally.”

“Did the flowers arrive to your office?” she asked, just remembering she’d scheduled the order for that morning, east coast time.

“They did. You have such excellent taste, Kade.”

Kade raised a brow slightly as she smirked. “I know.” 

Kade didn’t want to say that she missed Bedelia, considering their relationship still bordered too close to casual to warrant actual emotions, but the truth was she did miss the other woman: she had become accustomed to drinks late into the night, the scheduled Sunday morning fuck before Du Maurier went off to Mass.

“I’m thinking of going to the Baltimore Museum of Art’s new gallery opening next Wednesday—I should be in town that night. Would you like to join me?”

“I’ll pencil you in.”

Her stomach suddenly had butterflies, but she didn’t want the Vice President to know that. “I’ll have my assistant send yours the details.”

“And I’ll send you the address to the restaurant.”

Kade smiled and began to reach for her high heels. “I’ll let you get back to work and I’ll take my lunch break.”

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +”Rubicon” was a show by AMC that lasted only one season. One of the comments made by critics was that they fell asleep to it because it wasn’t action based. It’s no longer available on iTunes, and the only place I’ve found it is in various torrents.
> 
> +’The Wire’ is one of President Obama’s favourite shows
> 
> +Incognito braces are fitted behind the teeth, therefore allowing a patient to have the orthodontics needed without letting anyone see them
> 
> +The Flemish Giant Rabbit can be used for pet assisted therapy. And they are very large—google them!
> 
> +Prisons have been using crocheting and knitting to teach male prisoners how to better manage their anger. It’s a very interesting therapy technique.
> 
> +Kaaaade


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

For Cordell, March arrived quietly and at a private airfield that Mason owned outside of Baltimore; the air was damp and the sky overcast, threatening rain, possibly a thunderstorm. A young woman disembarked the private jet that had arrived from California and he sat in the back of Mason’s only stretch limo, which they’d brought out of the garage simply for show. Studying her from behind the tinted windows, Cordell sent a quick text to his employer that she looked even better in person, and then the door was opened by the driver so that she could climb inside to sit across from him.

He introduced himself and she in kind; the young woman was having a hard time maintaining a cool façade, her hands running over the leather of the seat and eyes exploring every inch of the interior. He and Mason contacted her with an offer of a quarter of a million dollars, and she’d been more than eager to hop onto one the Verger private jets without any other questions of substance being asked, which Cordell thought was rather naïve for someone in her profession. 

“Okay, so what’s the job, exactly?” she asked as the limo began to move.

He removed a file at the top of the small stack on the seat beside him. “For legal reasons I need you to sign this nondisclosure agreement. It states that if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, we’ll come down on you with severe legal recourse. Do you understand?”

He handed it to her along with a pen he pulled from his jacket’s pocket.

She accepted them both, but gave him a suspicious look. “Why can’t I talk about it?”

“My employer is a private man.”

“So it’s not because there are laws being broken, right?”

“No laws are being broken. It’s just to keep this between us.”

“Okay.” She signed her name quickly where small highlighted tabs had been placed and when she was finished, she handed it back to him.

“I shall have a copy made for your personal file, should you ever wish to look it over,” he informed her as he slipped the file to the bottom of the stack.

“I had to sign one of those when we started filming,” she replied, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. Her eyes made contact with his momentarily, unable to hide the calculating look. “I also have a non-compete contract.”

That wouldn’t be a problem. “Since we’re not going to be distributing anything we wish to have you perform in, it shouldn’t violate the previous agreement you’ve made with your company.”

She looked a little disappointed that her largest bargaining chip had been rendered moot, that she wouldn’t be able to leverage more money out of him. Mason might have been tempted to buy her porn contract, but there was always the possibility that it might make a paper trail back, so it that path was to be avoided at all costs.

“My employer has a fantasy about the First Lady that he’d like filmed. It would be for his private collection, never to be shared.”

She nodded, her brow creasing slightly. “Okay, like what?”

Cordell handed her the file that now sat at the top of the stack and she took it. She mouthed the words along as she read and Cordell watched the action very carefully, storing the information away to use at a later point. From this angle, she looked identical to the Lecter girl.

“Her prom night?” she asked, looking back up at him for confirmation.

A nod. “He won her dress in the charity auction last year, so that’s what you’ll wear.”

“This seems pretty normal,” she said with a smile and a shrug, still waiting for the catch.

“It is,” he agreed. “But like I said, he wants it filmed for his personal collection. Something only he’d have. A custom fantasy.”

“And he wants to fuck me?” She held tension in her shoulders, obviously steeling herself for the ‘yes’ he was expected to give.

“Actually, he’ll probably have me fuck you, but that’s up to his personal whims when we reach the location.” He ignored her looking him over. “And you will be provided with a doctor’s assurance that your partner is clean.”

She gave a small hum of agreement, her eyes now avoiding him to return to the file. He smirked at her discomfort, imagining her expression if she knew everything he’d be capable of doing to her should Mason let him have her.

“This is pretty detailed,” she said after a few minutes, still not looking back at him.

“My employer appreciates attention to detail.”

They didn’t speak again until they turned down the private drive to Muskrat Farms; as the limo slowed, she looked up, then did a double take as she took in the sight of the massive estate.

“Holy shit.”

Cordell’s smile was filled with far too much pride to make the expression pleasant. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“This is amazing.” She was breath-taken and when the limo pulled between the slowly parting gates, her face was practically against the window. “So when do I meet him? Your boss?”

Cordell wondered if she was already considering making a play to seduce Mason and he nearly laughed aloud at how preposterous that idea was. “Later.”

She turned back to look at him, her face betraying a momentary innocence, a desire to please. “Do you think he’ll like me?”

“Of course—you’re perfect,” he said with all the kindness he showed someone who hadn’t learned to fear him yet. “That building over there is the guest house, where you will be staying should my employer decide he wants you for the job. Your bags will be dropped off there while I show you the main house.”

“And I’ll meet him?”

“Not yet. There are a few formalities that still have to be approved before he makes a decision.”

Truly, Cordell couldn’t think of many reasons why Mason would say ‘no’ to using the one person who looked the most like Abigail Lecter. And she didn’t seem to be worried, as if the fact that her new employer was wealthy was a sign of his legitimacy.

In the expansive main foyer of the main house, Cordell led her to one of the waiting benches which had a hidden camera focused on it. Up in his room, Mason would be able to see her without her realising it.

“Wait here,” he instructed.

In the privacy of the next room, he lifted a phone receiver that had been placed on a side table. Bringing it to his ear, he could hear the assisted breathing machine of Mason’s.

“What do you think?” he asked, fingertips of his left hand resting on the cool lacquered surface of the table.

“She’s perfect! I say we keep her.” Mason’s voice was a little distant, but no less excited.

Cordell raised an eyebrow. “Starting now?”

“Why not?”

Cordell smiled. “I’ll have team notified.”

Hanging up the phone, Cordell pulled out his own cellphone to begin the coordination for making her disappear.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I apologise for the filler chapter. I’ve been sick and busy lately, and felt it was time to get *something* posted. I’m hoping to post more frequently so that this can conclude in the next month or so. The entirety of this book is completely mapped out so it’s just a matter of filling in the blank spaces. Thank you to everyone who has been leaving comments and continues reading. It means so much.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter encompasses the entirety of March 2014
> 
> warning: description of enhanced interrogation aka psychological torture for the objective of gaining information from a prisoner

Will curled up under the electric blanket Hannibal had placed over their bed the night before; sighing as Hannibal held him in his arms, he basked in the shared warmth and listened to Hannibal speak of the current discussion within his war cabinet for how to engage the increasing troop activity that Russia was sending into Ukraine. Will didn’t want to see the US engage in yet another combat situation, but with Hannibal’s right hand petting Will’s head in a slow and soothing manner, taking him back to the edge of sleep, Will found himself unwilling to voice his concerns about invoking NATO’s Article 5.His own arm draped over Hannibal’s chest, he began to formulate a plan of attack against Hannibal’s reasoning so that he might prevent the President from looking too hawkish, from getting this administration caught in the shit-show that Russia would start by being confronted.

While Will knew it was not a personal vendetta against Russia, that Hannibal simply found Putin detestable and wished to humiliate him, to anyone else watching it would seem as though Hannibal was searching for any way to extract belated revenge against the country whose soldiers had murdered his family. It would come across as petty and reminiscent of the way George W Bush had been suspected of restarting a war his father hadn’t won. Besides, Hannibal had campaigned on a platform of bringing an end to the Afghan and Iraqi wars—how could he get reelected if he merely started another one?

Hannibal stretched his naked body out against Will’s and Will longed to press his lips to the politician’s, but the thought of how he looked was deterrent enough to keep the emotions to himself. Instead he closed his eyes and turned his face away just enough to hide his scars from Hannibal. As the silence grew, Will breathed in the scent of the linen spray on the pillows, wishing that he could forget that he no longer blended in amongst others physically. 

“I am afraid that my cousin has committed me to Freddie Lounds for the first on-air interview since your recover.”

Will’s eyes shot open and he sat up abruptly enough to become lightheaded, frowning. “You can’t.”

“I must.” Hannibal attempted to stroke his fingers across Will’s chest, but Will brushed them away. “It will be filmed this morning and she will edit it, posting it tonight.”

While what Will felt for Lounds couldn’t be considered hate on the same level as what he felt for Hannibal at times, the anger her felt for her rivaled no one else’s; the way she conducted herself was revolting and he thought she was a detriment to her profession. He did, however, know Hannibal well enough that his own irritation with the journalist would never let him strike any form of deal with her that would allow her to benefit.

He ground his molars, which sent a painful twinge up through his skull. “What did Du Maurier trade for it?”

“Information about Dolarhyde.”

His stomach clenched and he fought to keep his voice level. “Freddie Lounds had _information_?”

“Freddie Lounds was taken by him in January for less than twenty-four hours.” Hannibal tugged him back down onto the bed. “She was debriefed after she was recovered by the NYPD. Dolarhyde released her. She seems to believe that she talked him out of killing her.”

Now that was interesting. A million questions began to race through Will’s mind, wondering why Lounds had reached that conclusion and if it was true, then what factor specifically had changed Dolarhyde’s mind.

“I…” He tried to wrack his mind for any information that in hindsight indicated she’d been kidnapped, too, but could find nothing. “I had no idea. What happened to her?”

“Nothing that can’t be reversed.” Hannibal’s palm lay across the soft concave of Will’s belly. “Some scarring. But he allowed her to live. I shall have the report sent up after you finish your physical therapy.”

Will rolled over so that he was facing away from the other man. “I want the report. I want to know what she experienced.”

“I shall have the file brought to you.”

As Hannibal wrapped him into his arms once more, Will contemplated that if even his enemies weren’t safe from Dolarhyde, then who was?

*****

There was a man waiting for Hannibal in the Roosevelt Room, which was still being used as the headquarters for every investigation regarding REDDRAGON and Will’s kidnapping. He gave Hannibal a broad smile as the older politician entered the room and with every microsecond evaluation Hannibal made about him, it became apparent that he was not a man Hannibal would like at all. The posture, the clothing, the way he looked Miss Mapp over in a manner that wasn’t nearly as subtle as he believed—Hannibal had spent far too much time around government workers like this man and they’d always managed to outdo Hannibal’s expectations for slovenly manners.

“DOJ sent me down—Special Agent Paul Krendler,” the mane introduced, holding his hand out.

Hannibal shook his hand, tucking his emotions away, instead only emoting the placid demeanor that he was renowned for. “Thank you for meeting with me, Agent Krendler.”

“Good to meet you, Mr President.” Krendler slipped his hands, rocking on the balls of his feet; he was reveling in the attention he was receiving by everyone room, his mannerisms“So I understand you want to talk to Elaine Frost? Is that right?”

Hannibal loathed rhetorical questions, and loathed even more that it would be a breach of etiquette for him not to answer. “It is.”

“Well, first off, I have to say it’s a bad idea to have you anywhere near her. We’re going to have to appoint her an attorney at some point and the last thing we need being brought up at trial is that you’ve had contact with her.” This received nods and murmurs of agreement from the others in the room, as though Hannibal had never considered this idea. “And with her history as one of the Army’s interrogators, she’s already mentally prepared for the usual tactics we’d throw her way. We’re lucky she’s not threatening a hunger strike like her type usually do—last thing I need is those people at the ACLU to start whining about a feeding tube.”

Hannibal wanted to shove a feeding tube down Krendler’s throat and treat him like a goose prime for fois gras.

Krendler continued, none the wiser of Hannibal’s thoughts. “Plus with the way the media is treating her, they’re trying to find anything to tie a story to you. Nothing’s more exciting to the public than the thought of bringing a female radical to trial for armed robbery and felony counts of murder. Our legal departments have been working overtime on a way to block you for being called as a witness.” He took his empty coffee mug off the table and held it out towards Miss Mapp, finally acknowledging her presence in the room beyond the original fleeting evaluation of her body. “Could you get me a refill, sweetheart?”

Miss Mapp’s voice remained professional, but there was a certain coolness to her voice. “I can direct you to the coffeemaker, sir. But I work for the President.”

Hannibal watched as Krendler gave her a tight smile, his posture indicating that he was biting back some sort of insult, but judged it unwise in front of Hannibal and the others in the room. Hannibal continued speaking as though he hadn’t noticed.

“I believe I can persuade Ms Frost to give me the information I need.”

Krendler shifted his focus back at him. “Look, if you think knocking her around will help, I got guys for that. I know you’re upset about your friend Graham, but making her a punching bag will set off her lawyer. Not that anyone would believe her that the President did it, but the blame would get passed to one of the guards and I can’t have that.”

“I will not employ physical tactics against her. Our country is quite capable of utilising other forms of questioning.”

“Let’s discuss this in your office,” Krendler suggested, his eyes shifting over to the windows that composed the entire wall structure of the room.

Hannibal agreed and Miss Mapp opened the door for him to exit first, waiting long enough to let him through, then hurrying across the hall to open the door to the Oval Office. As he walked through, she asked sweetly,

“Would you like me to get you a refill for your coffee, President Lecter?”

Hannibal caught sight of Krendler, who looked positivity livid at her passive aggressive refusal once again to serve him, and while Hannibal didn’t smile—which would give away the shared amusement—he did give a small shake of his head, before the door was shut behind the last of the analysts, barring her from the room.

*****

Matty had finally finished his assignment of providing security for a visiting dignitary to the United States and with the opportunity to now serve as one of agents who followed after Abel Gideon, he was able to visit the Residence once more. Not that he hadn’t been trying to see Mr Graham. He’d been continuously given some sort of excuse about Mr Graham sleeping or having therapy, which he’d come to see was a ploy to keep him from any contact with Mr Graham. At first, he suspected it was because of security reasons, that everyone was a suspect still. Next, he was forced to consider that this was yet another way for Lecter to rub his nose in the fact that it was _he_ who had an established relationship with Mr Graham, which would be completely like him. But recently, when Matty had learned that Mr Graham had rejected talking to the professor he used to share classes with, that he’d rejected Alana Bloom and Georgia Madchenn, he had to consider that maybe Mr Graham didn’t want to see anyone, including him. That thought hurt somewhat, though he would be very understanding if that was the situation. 

He checked his hair in the refection of a photo of Ladybird Johnson. She looked an awful lot like his mom, which was pretty unnerving—it felt like the photo was judging him. Satisfied with his hair, he was able to look away and make his way to the Residence.

As he climbed the main staircase, he thought with some relief that at least he was out of that shithole arrangement with Mr Verger to provide information about the REDDRAGON organisation. It hadn’t been a bad arrangement, and Mr Verger had compensated him generously for everything Matty had been able to bring him, but it was still so, so risky to be involved with him and the moment Mr Graham had been found, Matty had diplomatically attempted to sever ties. Mr Verger still seemed interested in pursuing Lecter, but Matty had made it clear that it would be much too difficult to continue.

Now, he allowed himself a quick grin at the thought of greeting Mr Graham. He imagined running his hands through Mr Graham’s hair, kissing him deeply, holding his hands protectively in his. He’d figure out a way to fortify the house in Wolf Trap and the property. They’d have dogs—all rescues—and he’d figure out a way to make enough money to support the both of them so that Mr Graham could choose to stay at home if he didn’t want to go out in public anymore. He’d not seen the injuries to Mr Graham’s face, but he learn to accept them—after all, they’d not been described anywhere near what Mr Verger’s face looked like and those were horrible, but he got used to those, didn’t he? And he had enough money in his savings account that he could afford to keep Mr Graham’s fancy psychiatrist, if Mr Graham liked seeing her. Yeah, he had this under control.

He tried to imagine the look on Mr Graham’s face when Matty finally said ‘ _I love you_ ’. Would he look shocked? No doubt he’d look relieved after a moment. That he had someone in his corner who actually cared about him, that didn’t hang him out as bait for the media, who didn’t make him cry, who didn’t let him down.

Would Mr Graham have to keep pretending to be in a relationship so that he could stay at the White House while he recovered? Or would he tell Lecter to shove it and leave this very day? Matty was sure he could drop work long enough to get Mr Graham settled back at home in Wolf Trap.

The Lincoln Bedroom had Secret Service posted outside of both the doors twenty-four/seven; he had considered briefly that he might use the side passages to get into Mr Graham’s room, but that felt a little sleezy and besides, it would be strictly unauthorised and would probably result in him being demoted. Ever since Mr Graham had been kidnapped, his own role within the Secret Service had seemed very adrift and Matty didn’t want to give anyone any reason to create distance between himself and the man he loved.

“Hey, Matt,” one of the agents—Tall Joe—greeted casually.

“Hey,” he replied, standing at ease before them. “Mr Graham up for seeing visitors?”

“Not yet. Sorry, Matt,” the other agent—Hank—said with a hollow smile. 

Matty couldn’t say he was surprised, so he returned to fake smile and nodded, thanking them and walking back towards the main staircase. He wasn’t even at the stairs when the door to Mr Graham’s room opened; Agent Brauer—smug prick—came out and smiling, jogged over to him. Matty’s jealousy and later anger at Brauer being assigned as Mr Graham’s senior agent upon the kidnapping had made navigating the situation awkward at best—Matty had all but demanded to be reassigned back to his old station as the senior agent and had been very tactfully denied at the reasoning of Brauer’s experience being needed. Left with nothing but a petty hatred towards the other man, Matty knew it was up to him to win his old job back in some other way. It still stung to think that a fellow agent would screw him over the way he was.

“Hey, Matt,” he greeted.

Matty smiled back, a small flicker of hope within him that Mr Graham had sent a message through Brauer. “Yeah?”

He lowered his voice. “You need to take a step back from Graham, okay?”

Matty pretended he hadn’t heard. “I’m sorry?”

Brauer’s smile persisted. “Will belongs to the President and the First Lady.”

“Mr Graham doesn’t belong to anyone.” Matty forced his hands from curling into fists.

“You know what I mean.” He tilted his head to the side slightly in a nod, as though he could sympathise with Matty’s predicament. “I know it can get complicated when you’re close to your marks, but you need to either be objective or request a reassignment. You’re making things uncomfortable in the Residence.”

Matty was no longer faking his own pleasant demeanor. “Is that what Mr Graham told you?”

“This isn’t a debate. Either cool it or move it.” Calm and nonthreatening, Brauer studied Matty’s face. “Got it?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a hiss, torn from a humiliated place.

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Matty’s hands were clenched in fists and he forced himself to release them as Brauer returned to the Lincoln Bedroom. It made him sick to think that Mr Graham was being isolated from anyone other than Lecter and his snake daughter. Maybe getting in contact with Mr Verger again wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

*****

It hadn’t taken much thinking for Will to get that if Dolarhyde’s people had been able to get to him, they’d certainly be able to get to Abigail, even with their organisation’s existence now in the public eye. He was certain that Dolarhyde still had supporters—people who’d not taken on the militia aspect of Dolarhyde’s vision, but people willing to provide assistance in the form of shelter, fake IDs, and recon. A network of people who were equally pissed off that Will had lived, that Abigail hadn’t been taken, that Lecter was still in power. And while Hannibal believed that he was still invincible, Will could see that it didn’t matter how strong the other man was—he and Abigail would never be.

After his morning protein supplement, but before Abigail had left the Residence, Will had Brauer request Barney to his sitting room. Will sat anxiously at one of the chairs by the window, feeling as though he was paranoid. Barney came into the sitting room, wincing slightly as he caught sight of Will’s exposed injuries and Will quickly averted his eyes to just over the man’s shoulder, embarrassed.

“Good morning, Mr Graham. What can I do for you?”

Still self-conscious about how he sounded when he talked to those not part of his daily routine, he wrote down on his white board for the agent.

// _Please teach Abigail how to protect herself_ //

In his peripheral vision, he could see the agent nod. “What did you have in mind?”

// _Gun_ //

Under that he added,

// _Physical_ //

“I’ll come up with something—“

Barney had the decency to cut himself short as Will began to write quickly on the board, as though he’d been interrupted by vocal words.

// _I need her 2 know how to protect herself_ //

// _It’s too dangerous now_ //

// _He can get 2 us_ //

“I’ll make sure she gets the training she needs. You’re right—I might not be enough.”

Will nodded, his breathing having quickened. Barney offered an understanding smile and Will could tell that the other man didn’t think Will was overreacting, which was a relief. Every security council member who’d debriefed him seemed to think so. He relaxed somewhat as Barney dismissed himself, though there was a nagging distress that he’d just burdened Abigail with something ugly.

*****

That evening they watched a PBS special on the human genome that had caught Hannibal’s interest; Abigail’s feet were in his lap and his head was against Hannibal’s shoulder. Applesauce was gnawing on a chew toy while Winston slept at Hannibal’s feet, yawning every fifteen minutes or so. The show was as boring as it sounded, but Will would take domesticity in any way, shape, or form it was handed to him. Occasionally, Abigail would make an observation about having recalled some of the information from school and Hannibal would agree, but for the most part, they sat together in content silence.

Abigail left at the end of the programme, kissing them both of the cheek before summoning the dogs to follow her. There was a performance in the East Room in the morning that she would be playing host to and she cited needing a good night’s rest, which Will believed, but suspected she wanted Hannibal to talk to him about something, likely the self-defense training. And sure enough, as the channel segued between the human genome and a BBC show, Hannibal spoke.

“I have been told that you requested that Abigail receive training with a firearm.”

The words of Patti Smith came to Will in a painful, poignant way and his voice broke as they fell off his tongue.“Sixty days ago she such a lovely child. And now here she is—with a gun in her hand.”

Hannibal, who felt no pity or empathy, offered no words to Will as he felt his heart break; it would never matter to him that Abigail was a remorseless murderer—she was a child and her life was in danger because of people who were angry that America was slowly shifting away from the status quo of good ol’ boys. And he couldn’t protect her. Hannibal’s hand rest warmly on the back of Will’s neck while he sobbed.

*****

Will found that he didn’t entirely hate his time with Dr McClane; while discussing his problems and issues was absolutely at the the bottom of the list of things he wanted to do, she at least was good company. She came on Tuesday and Thursday every week, taking two hours of his time, which was excruciating because the focus was solidly on him. However she was very good at easing into the topics she wanted to cover and while that didn’t make them more palatable, he was at least prepared.

The analyst in him wanted to interrogate her for information regarding her soldier patients: how normal were the lives they led now? How long would they keep their weekly appointments with her? Could Will even consider himself on the same echelon as men and women who readily signed up for combat when he’d always taken a political stance against military actions and wars?

“So have you picked out an activity for meditation?” she asked once they’d moved past the formalities of greetings.

“Hannibal has been teaching me the art of flower arrangement.” Will made a face as best he could. “It’s not something I really like, but I enjoy the tools and at the end of it, I have something to give Abigail.”

Immediately he regretted saying anything about Abigail; in his comfort and familiarity with Dr McClane he would occasionally forget that she couldn’t actually read fucking minds and still didn’t know certain things about his life. 

“Does she like the flowers?” she asked, one of her hands reaching up to adjust the hoop of her earring.

“I’m not sleeping with her. She’s like my own daughter,” Will said quickly, wanting it established that he wasn’t emotionally manipulating a teenager into having sex with him.

Giving her permission to explore the topic she’d so carefully avoided before now was the only way Will could see convincing her outside of having to out himself and Hannibal.

“It must be hard to know the general public thinks otherwise,” she offered.

“I hate it. I hate knowing she isn’t believed or trusted because of it. That the more any of us protest, the more guilty of it she looks,” he said, reminded of the weight that he’d felt after Freddie Lounds had posted her despicable article back in December.

“You are worried of the repercussions for her.”

“Her public image is ruined for now.” As little as he wanted to spend his time talking about himself, he wanted even less to talk about Abigail, so he was quick to get the conversation back in the direction Dr McClane had started it. “She and I used to tie flies sometimes.”

“Tie flies?”

“Uh, we make fishing lures. With bits of feathers and string…hair. That kind of thing.” He thought about something he’d even been contemplating back in September before everything in his life spiraled out of control. “I’m thinking of making Hannibal a box to store his supplies in. When I’m able to stand for longer periods of time, that is.”

“You are familiar with wood working?”

“Yes, I like to make things. They’re simple, but they’re functional.” Honestly, nothing he’d ever made before was aesthetically pleasing outside of a rustic way. “I was thinking of doing it while he’s out of town—surprise him.”

Dr McClane’s face softened and a pleased smile reached her lips. “Are you a gift giver, Will?”

“Uh, usually when I’m upset. I’ll buy things on impulse.” He fidgeted in his seat. “You don’t have to tell me what that says about me. I already know.”

“What was the last gift you bought someone out of impulse?”

“A book for Abigail’s birthday.” While his mind was still as brilliant as it had always been, there were many thoughts that were still jumbled and one of the tangles straightened out. “Shit, I didn’t get Hannibal anything for his birthday.”

“Back in January?”

He felt something gnawing within him, the start of losing control. “Yeah.”

“I’m sure he can let it slide,” she said calmly.

“But I…” Yes, that all sounded fine in theory. “I just don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Fuck what up?”

“This. They’ve given me…” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands worrying themselves. “They’re given me so much. A home. A family.”

“Do you mind telling me about your family, Will?”

She made it sound as though Will could decline and she wouldn’t pursue it. He knew she would regardless.

“Nothing you probably don’t already know from my file.”

“Fair enough. How long have you been without the feeling of family?”

“It’s not…” The question felt unfair and he immediately took it as a personal failure of his own. “My dad tried. Really hard. But I never fit in with him.”

“And they make you feel like you fit in?”

“Yes.” Wasn’t that a horrible thing to admit?

“Are you worried that they’ll abandon you? Or forget about you? Or grow tired of you?”

“I don’t want to feel out of place. I want to fit in.” And wasn’t that what he’d always wanted? “I want for them to feel like I’m a necessary piece of their lives. Isn’t that the most selfish thing you’ve ever heard?”

She was quiet for a moment, her face giving away no indication of her thoughts. “Are you losing your sense of identity the more you’re with them?”

“Yes.” The word came out eagerly, much to his discomfort.

“Does that worry you?”

“When I was held captive, I had a lot of time to consider that in the short time I’ve been around them, everything in my life has been put into a new perspective.” He thought of the Box and being in the absolute dark for days on end, that if he’d not been so sick, if he’d not been so accustomed to being alone in his mind, that he might have been broken by the solitary confinement. She allowed him a moment to dwell on his thoughts and as she started to take a breath to speak, he broke his silence. “You know what the worst thing was? When I was alone, I kept thinking about how I had attended two security briefings that taught us how to get out of ziptie handcuffs. And I wasn’t paying attention during either of them, so I had no idea how to get out. And I kept thinking that if Hannibal knew that, he’d be so disappointed with me.”

“Tell me why you think he’d be disappointed,” she prompted, her tone hinting at the compassion she felt for him.

He gave a helpless shrug. “Hannibal masters everything in his life. If I was expected to learn security procedures that would have saved my life, then I should have paid full attention to the lesson.” He shook his head, not sure how to word his thoughts to her without it sounding as though Hannibal was a perfectionist and controlling. “Everything comes easy to him. He doesn’t…”

“Will, you were in the middle of a plot that took who knows how long to prepare for. Do you think you had an opportunity to break free that you missed out on because you didn’t have the skills that were taught for less than five hours total?” She frowned slightly, as though she’d found her words judgmental and something had occurred to her because of it. “Has Hannibal suggested that any of this was your fault?”

“No. No, he…” Will said quickly. “He’d overlook anything that might place the blame on me.”

Now she appeared intrigued again. “And why is that?”

“He doesn’t want to find a fault in me.”

She accepted his premise to explore it further. “If this had happened to someone else, do you think he would be able to blame them?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“Why?”

When he said nothing, she continued. 

“Do you think you’ve set unrealistic expectations on yourself, Will?” she asked, apparently expecting him to confront his own thought process. “You are a civilian in a non-combatant occupation. The likelihood of you being put in a scenario like the one you found yourself in is incredibly slim. Not only that, you were with _professionals_ who’d taken the responsibility for your safety into their own hands. Do you think it’s realistic to have been prepared for an event that you didn’t expect?”

“I was still given the training.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But I think you did everything you could given the circumstances. A soldier would have a hard time with the conditions you were under and they’re _trained_ how to respond in the event they’re taken as a prisoner of war. Why do you believe you’d be different?”

On the coffee table placed between their seats, Tony had placed a coffee mug and pitcher of room temperature water where Will could reach them. Due to the injury to his mouth, he had found that his tongue and gums had a tendency to dry easier than he was accustomed, and after the amount of talking he’d done so far, his throat was starting to feel tight. Picking up the pitcher, he poured himself water—self-conscious that there wasn’t a mug to offer Dr McClane—and then picked up a paper wrapped straw. As he peeled away the wrapper, she settled back into her chair, a silent indication that she hadn’t interpreted the pause as him buying time from answering the question.

He wasn’t able to create decent suction around a straw yet and as a result, thin liquids drooled out through the split in his lip and cheek. A washcloth had been set out as well and he dabbed at his mouth, his chin, then tossed the washcloth onto the couch beside him. That McClane was blind allowed Will to feel selfish relief that he couldn’t be watched as he took care of himself.

“Because I’m smart,” he finally answered.

Dr McClane grinned. “You’re undoubtably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, Will. But I promise you, from what I know about this kind of thing, there was nothing you could do.” Her grin softened to something more compassionate. “You felt helpless and it’s easier to rationalise that you simply dropped the ball, rather than accept that you simply couldn’t _do_ anything. You’re also accustomed to having an answer and solution to anything that crosses your path, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And then you were presented with a scenario that _nothing_ has genuinely prepared you how to deal with what was happening to you. You are a civilian in the hands of people who were prepared to create an environment where your sole purpose was to suffer.”

“Yes,” he agreed, feeling a sudden relief at her allowing him to acknowledge that truth.

She took the opening he’d provided and asked something a little harder. “It’s in your file that you didn’t allow the President to negotiate the terms of your release. Why is that?”

The information wasn’t classified as it had been on the recordings REDDRAGON had made and posted online, but discussing it was undoubtably disclosing classified information. Not that Will was worried Reba McClane was a spy for Dolarhyde. He could sense that she had listened the the recordings multiple times, but would never address it unless he asked, and even then, she’d be hesitant to talk about _her_ experience with what happened to him, rather wanting to focus on _his_ experience.

“REDDRAGON wasn’t going to let me go,” he explained. “Not alive, maybe not even dead. They are a hostile terrorist cell that was trying to make a point and like all terrorist groups, they want people to fear them. Letting me live would have been counterproductive to the image they were trying to cultivate.” He let out a shaky exhale from out between his teeth. “I shouldn’t be alive right now.”

“That’s a heavy burden to carry,” she said sympathetically.

“I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s too much for today, okay?” His hands were gripped into fists and he was starting to get tunnel vision as his mind began to run rampant with memories of how overtime he’d been taken out of the Box, he’d never been sure if he was to be led to his death. 

“Sure, Will. We can talk about something else.”

Will’s body was still clenched in the anticipation of her pressuring him to continue with the topic further—he wasn’t used to people dropping a subject when he asked and while he liked her, she had a job to improve his mental health, so he had a sinking suspicion that she would work towards the topic again via another route.

“I met one of your dogs today. It sniffed at my hand—very wet nose,” she informed him with some amusement.

The start of a smile played at the corner of his lips. “Were you with Hannibal?”

“Yes.”

“Then you met Winston.”

“I’ll try to pet him next time—see how similar to a german shepherd he is,” she said.

“Applesauce generally stays with Abigail. I don’t think Hannibal is very fond of her. Applesauce,” he clarified.

“He’s not a dog person, is he?” she asked, knowingly.

“Not really. I think he keeps Winston close because he’s a reminder of me.”

“Hannibal is the first close friend you’ve ever had, isn’t he?”

And there it was—he’d given her a way back to the poking and prodding of his brain.

“I’ve had close friends,” he lied.

“But not someone like him,” she countered.

He couldn’t help the scoffing tone in his voice. “No one is like him.”

“What is it like to know the most powerful man in this country is your best friend?”

“Terrifying.” Less because Hannibal was the President, more because he was a remorseless serial killer who liked to impress Will by providing him a real-life murder mystery.

“Do you think you’re unworthy of his friendship?” Dr McClane asked.

“Neither of us are capable of making friends. We don’t relate well to others. What does that say about us?”

“You can relate—“

Will was quick to interrupt her. She could never possibly understand their relationship without the element of death and lying that passed between both men.

“No—no, he’s something else. He likes to watch people. But he’s detached from them. Completely. Letting someone into his world hints at a deeper interest. A fascination.”

He let that sit with her, hoping she wouldn’t see it as qualities he was attributing to himself subconsciously. Was he looking to be rescued? No. That would be impossible at this point. Even if he was to be separated from the Lecters, he’d strive to return. But he did want an ally in his corner, someone who could help him keep his head above water, so he didn’t drown entirely in the temptations their world had to offer.

“He trusts you with Abigail.” Apparently, she thought it best to address another large element of his relationship with Hannibal.

“He loves Abigail so much. She’s…” He paused, searching for the correct words.“He is devoted to her. He thinks of her as his counterpart in many ways. She’s his legacy. His return to family.”

“You must be very important to him, too, then. To want to have you as a part of his family.”

Of course he was important to Hannibal. But not sacred and untouchable, the way his infant sister had been. “She’ll never replace what he’s lost. Neither will I.”

“Do you feel as though he’s brought you into his life due to loneliness?” It was a very loaded question.

“He…” He scratched delicately around the puckering scars on the left side of his face. “Yes, I suppose he’s one of the loneliest people I’ve ever known. Seeking, but never finding.”

“You lead a solitary life,” she pointed out.

“I always have. It’s not easy to know me.”

“Do you believe he knows you?”

“Not entirely. Not always. But more than anyone else. Better than anyone else.”

“Your father never treated you the way Hannibal treats Abigail.”

“Let’s not get into the daddy issues just yet, doctor. I still have to pretend I’m not completely a lost cause.”

“Problems with fathers don’t make you a lost cause, Will.” She said it gently, but the words still felt like a slap to the face.

He swallowed hard and to his relief, saw the that the clock by the door indicated that he’d in face been there for the entirety of the session. “Our time is up.”

Her hand went down to her jacket’s pocket and Will heard the faint vibration of her phone. “So it is. Let’s finish our session with an affirmation I often give my veteran patients. It might sound cheesy, and it might be hard to believe about yourself and your reality, but they help correct faulty thoughts that lead you in the opposite direction of healing.”

“Okay.” He was always hesitant to agree to ‘feel-good’ things—he’d never been an optimist.

Her voice was steady in the way all voices were when they repeated a long-used mantra. “I am a good man. I deserve happiness. I am a likable person. I am beautiful, worthy, and valuable. I am lovable. It is okay to make mistakes.”

He felt embarrassment flood him, unaccustomed to speaking about himself with respect; his voice became quiet, tense. “I am a good man. I deserve happiness. I am a likable person.”

He struggled to say the next part, as it was ground he never ventured into, even on his best days. It reminded him of something Hannibal might praise him for.

She was apparently used to patients hesitating to speak something they believed to be untrue, so she patiently began to repeat the affirmation to prompt him into saying it as well. “I am beautiful, worthy, and valuable.”

“I am beautiful, worthy, and valuable. I am…” The word ‘lovable’ refused to form on his and he gritted his molars despite the pain. “It’s okay to make mistakes.”

“Very good. Affirmations take a little time and practice. Next time we’ll say it all the way through. Until then, repeat it to yourself every hour or two during the day so that you have it completely memorised. Would you like me to text it to you?”

He shook his head without stopping to think she wouldn’t see it. “No, I’ve got it memorised.”

As she stood and grabbed her purse off the floor, he asked,

“Do you say daily affirmations?”

“When I’m feeling down.” She unfolded her cane and smiled in his general direction. “It’s been great talking to you, Will.”

“Thank you, Dr McClane.”

*****

“I bought you a book,” Tony announced one morning after their usual daily routine and Will had elected to return to sitting in bed.

“Oh?”

“I like self-improvement, and this one was good. One of my favourites. I thought you’d like it, too.” Tony gave him a wink as though he and Will were friends, not patient and caregiver.

“Plastic surgery for beginners?” Will asked, as his nurse retrieved the book from a backpack by his usual seat.

Tony laughed as he brought it over to the bed.

“Thank you. I’ll start after lunch.” Will had read ‘The Hero’s Journey’ before, but it might be interesting to read again.

“What are you reading?” he asked as Tony settled into his own chair, pulling out the e-reader he read from.

“Trying to get through your research of why Reagan swept both of his elections the way he did.”

Will frowned. “You’re reading it?”

“It’s a best seller. Most people were disappointed to find that it was just a published analysis, but Nate Silver talked about it a few times during interviews when they asked about how your methods for analysis differ from his. I think they thought it would be more like his blog. The university released a digital version because they couldn’t keep up with the demand for the printed version. That’s the one I have—for my Kindle.” Tony held the device aloft so that Will could see the milky glow of the screen.

“Well, I’m glad someone was able to make money off my kidnapping,” Will said with more annoyance than anger—he knew the university hadn’t intentionally tried to profit off of his circumstances, that the papers had been published and sitting around for years with the occasional purchase.

“I don’t understand half of this,” Tony admitted, shaking his head slightly.

Will pitied anyone who’d been looking for something other than monotonous scenarios. “It’s not meant for laymen to understand.”

“No, I guess not. Do your students understand this?”

That he doubted very much. “One would hope.”

“An Exploration of Intersectional Political Analysis Theory,” Tony read aloud, his fingers highlighting something.

“That was my first paper.” A twinge of nostalgia nearly made him smile. “Bit dry. It’s an advanced class now.”

“So this can tell you how individuals and groups of people will vote based on demographics?”

It was far more complicated than that, but the topic was boring and complex for anyone who didn’t already have an interest in advanced electioneering, so Will felt it was best to give the far oversimplified version.

“It’s to break down what candidate will become the nominee for each party and then what are the key issues a candidate should focus on to maximise voter turn out in their favour.”

“Who will I vote for in the next election and why?” Tony asked, his expression amused and challenging.

Ah, the reduction of ability to party tricks. Will was all too familiar with it.

“Well, you have a personal repertoire with Hannibal—you’ve seen his personality during mundane tasks and you feel as though you have a grasp on his personality during crisis. You will always view him as a leader because he was your boss at one point. But I know also that—“ Will briefly thought about not saying the next part, but wanted to make it clear that he really did know what he was doing. “You’d vote for him because you’re attracted to him.”

A tinge of pink crept onto his nurse’s cheeks and the smile vanished. “I didn’t realise that I was that obvious.”

Brauer was staring at Will now, gauging his reaction, if he felt Tony was a threat to his relationship with the President. Will considered that Brauer might ask Tony to leave if Will indicated he was uncomfortable with the other man’s presence.

“You’re not,” Will assured him, eyes lowered.

“I hope that’s not an issue?” Tony asked hesitantly.

Will shook his head and Tony smiled at him, relieved. While there had been people who’d occasionally wondered about his orientation, Will had never faced the possibility of discrimination for being out. He could feel Tony’s anxiety disappearing—he’d have been broken hearted for losing a job, for letting Hannibal down, and that he’d lost Will’s trust. And the future was racing towards Will now—soon he would have to face that reality for himself. His stomach tightened again and he worried the gap in his molars with his sensitive tongue, a habit he’d acquired in the past few weeks.

“What about me? Chilton or Lecter?”

Brauer’s voice startled Will. He was usually so quiet, not engaging in conversations that Tony tried to have with Will to get him to socialise.

“You want a leader who is decisive, someone who has a life long record of standing by their issues. You don’t like politicians who dodge and sidestep questions. You applaud yourself for being open minded, but it’s really how you rebel against your family’s conservative stance on everything—you grew up with money, and both Hannibal and Chilton made you feel at ease because both of them had grown up with money, also. You’re a conservative democrat—you don’t like most of the fiscal policies, but you’ll suck it up because the GOP hasn’t been offering anything better. I bet you registered as Democrat when you were younger just to piss off your parents. You find Hannibal a bit hawkish regarding the situation with Russia and the Ukraine, though if that’s the ensign our nation has chosen to wave, you’ll support it. But if you had a choice…” he paused, less for the dramatics, but to suss out what the man’s exact alignment was. “You’d want Du Maurier. If she were to run, you’d pick her over Hannibal.”

Brauer nodded contemplatively, his eyes directed out Will’s window; he then grinned. “You know I can’t talk about who I’d vote for.”

“Come on, I want to know if Will is right!” Tony protested, looking at the agent eagerly.

“Not allowed to show favouritism,” Brauer said smugly. “I love all my politicians equally.”

“That’s such crap,” Tony scolded, then turned to Will. “So this is something you’re able to just do?”

Will nodded, leaving the explanation at that.

“And you’re 99% accurate?”

Oh, that rumour had started during the 2012 campaign when he’d been forced to go home and the media had wanted to dissect his character. It was somewhat true and he liked to have people believe it—he could set his consulting fees outrageously high to weed out most campaigns who wished to hire him.

“Wow. Wow, that’s amazing. What were—“

Will held up a hand and shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about Mason Verger or the Lecters. They weren’t just mistakes—they were _failures_.

“Okay, no problem,” Tony said, always respectful of Will’s boundaries. “But you’re able to do this instantaneously, while in your paper you state that there is a statistical algorithm that your mind runs all the information through. I thought maybe it was like the cold-reading that spirit mediums use to read their clients.”

Will shrugged. It was probably similar enough. “It’s hard to explain without delving into advanced psychology. I just know I can do it.”

“Because you understand the algorithm already,” Tony supplied.

“You also suggest that the algorithm can be applied to crime,” Brauer pointed out. “Yeah, I read the paper. How successful were you when you tried it?”

“It was just a theory at the time,” Will told him, wanting to drop the matter.

Brauer suddenly sat up straighter, his eyes shifting slightly, a sign that he was listening to something on his ear piece. Will held up a hand to indicate that Tony shouldn’t talk and both men watched the agent.

“Agent Zeller is requesting to call your phone at some point. Authorise?” Brauer asked him.

Will’s stomach twisted. “What for?”

“He wants to issue an apology to you.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Will mumbled.

“Do you want to take the call?”

Tony was quick to interject, “Will, if you don’t want to talk to someone, you don’t have to. I don’t want you to stress yourself out.”

“I’ll be fine. Tell him to give me a minute. I’ll go take it in the sitting room.”

Crawling out of his comfortable spot on the bed, he grabbed his BlackBerry off the nightstand and walked out of the room with uncomfortable feeling of having their eyes on him. Once in the privacy of the sitting room, Will had wrapped himself in an throw blanket as he sat down on the couch, at which point his BlackBerry began to buzz. He took a deep breath and answered it.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mr Graham. This is Agent Brian Zeller.” Zeller cleared his throat. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Will said awkwardly. “Hannibal told me that he was able to let you keep your job.”

“And I’m very grateful to him for that. I’m calling because I owe you an apology.” 

Will felt shame at the understanding of exactly how much guilt Zeller had carried over the matter. “You don’t owe me anything. The evidence was compelling.”

“I thought you were going to kill the President. I was going to kill you.”

“That’s your job. I’m not mad.”

“I just wish that evening could have turned out differently.”

Will sighed. “Yeah, me too.”

*****

Abigail sat on the couch beside Will, using a very fine tipped pencil to sketch out a landscape on a stretched canvas, while he tried to stay entertained by a book the Madchen’s had bought for him. It was about the history of the Potomac River, which was interesting, but not really a subject he’d ever cared about. He’d secretly wished it had been about the Mississippi River instead. There was the sound of a vacuum in his bedroom, indicating that the cleaning staff had been let in by Tony to clean the room while they were in the sitting area connected to the Lincoln Bedroom. The curtains had been drawn partially open, allowing some light into the room, but not enough to cause his eyes to water uncontrollably.

On the side table beside the couch, he’d discovered that someone had carved the letter ‘B’ into the surface, hidden beneath the base of a lamp. He frowned, studying it, but said nothing. Speculating as to who had left the little mark was a nice mystery to try to solve; it looked too fresh to have been left behind from earlier years, too deep to have the possibility of being sanded out of the wood. It wasn’t malicious, merely braggadocios, an act of claim and control. Hannibal and the cleaning staff seemed unaware of its presence, and Will moved the lamp back over it so that it would stay that way. He’d have to ask Brauer who had stayed in the Lincoln Bedroom recently.

“What would you like to do with your time?” Abigail asked, breaking the silence. Her eyes were still on the canvas, head tilted slightly as she studied the outline of something that was possibly a puffy cloud. Or a floating roll of bread.

The Lecters had been gleefully trying to find him a ‘real’ hobby. “I think I’ll go for my doctorate.”

She turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“We’ll both be in school.”

“That would be awesome,” she whispered and he wondered if the word was forbidden. Knowing Hannibal, it most likely was. “What can I do to help?”

“You don’t have to worry about it. I need to talk to the school first. See what I need to do to be eligible.” Then he added with only a hint of bitterness, “And there is the hurdle of what they believe our relationship is. They might not allow me.”

“They have to,” she insisted in the way all privileged children did, certain that they were entitled to whatever they wanted.

Will knew academic politics well and while there would be a certain leniency due to what had happened to him, it didn’t guarantee him anything. “No, they don’t.”

“If they don’t allow you, where would we go to school instead?”

He could tell what she implying and he frowned the best he could. “I don’t want you to quit GWU just because they might not be happy with me.”

“I don’t want to stay if you can’t.” Her hand reached out to grip his, conveying the loyalty she felt for him.

“I’m sure there are other schools that would accept me.” He turned his lips as upwards as possible to make a smile. “Don’t worry.”

She nodded obediently, but he could see the gears turning in her mind, no doubt calculating a way to get him what he wanted.

*****

“Will, your nurse spoke with me this morning—” Dr McClane began to say and Will let out an aggravated huff, anxiety flaring within him all over again.

There had a been an inspection of his mouth and wounds before his breakfast shake and he’d…not reacted well.

“—and he said that you became anxious at the feeling of water being splashed on you during a routine checkup of your mouth. I think we should spend our session today exploring your PTSD surrounding waterboarding.”

“Do you have experience with other patients being waterboarded?” His voice was strained and he gripped his hands tightly in his lap.

“Two. I can’t discuss specifics, but both found the experience very traumatic. I can only imagine how it must be for someone who was waterboarded multiple times.”

Her voice was too gentle, too understanding and Will looked towards the window; the curtains were partially open today, as his eyes were no longer watering from natural light. He wished he could disappear, could return to his house in Wolf Trap where he could spend the day walking far into the fields and woods behind his house, away from people and questions.

“It wasn’t just the waterboarding,” he admitted when he began to feel guilt over her patient silence. “They only cleaned me a few times. I was handcuffed in a large tiled shower to a safety bar and they’d hose me down with cold water. I couldn’t protect my face.” His skin prickled at the memories. “I felt like I was dying.”

“That’s a common reaction to water after being waterboarded. The association of water splashing on you can trigger memories. How are you cleaning your body?”

Of course he couldn’t tell her that he only showered when he was with Hannibal in the evenings.

“It’s harder now that I’m no longer taking harder narcotics,” he lied, assuming that the was the reason for his reaction earlier. “I don’t want to talk about this, Dr McClane.”

“I think we should.”

“I can’t.” Pushed to his breaking point, Will stood from the sofa and walked as steadily as possible from the room.

He knew that literally running away from the conversation would only make it worse when he had to sit down for a session with her in two days, but he could feel the desire to lash out in anger rising and he didn’t dare subject her to that.

“Will?” she called out, her head turning in the direction of the sound of his bare feet across the carpet.

In the bedroom, Will waved to Brauer to deal with her and retreated to the quiet solitude of the bathroom, locking the door behind him and ignoring Tony asking through the door what was wrong.

*****

“Dr McClane thinks I’m starting to experience PTSD from the waterboarding,” Will said that evening as he watched Hannibal getting ready for bed.

Hannibal looked up at him, a small twitch of his eyebrows indicating that he was caught off-guard by the statement and Will’s stomach clenched tightly, sensing he’d said something wrong. “What?”

Hannibal’s words sounded careful, cautious. “Will, are you not aware that you _have_ been experiencing PTSD from the waterboarding since your return?”

“What are you talking about?” Will asked, uneasy.

Hannibal appeared to be carefully parsing his words. “When we shower together, you often make very distressed noises and movements when the water touches you. That is why I try to place myself between you and the shower head.”

“What are you talking about?” Will repeated, feeling as though everything in his world was being upended.

“I thought—“

“Don’t lie to me,” Will said, wishing that Hannibal was gaslighting him.

“Will—“

“Don’t lie to me, Hannibal.” Now the tears were starting to form and he swallowed around hard lump in his throat.

“Will, it is not unexpected for you not to be aware of your own actions—“

“I’ve been doing it the entire time since I came back?” Will’s voice cracked at the sobbing he was fighting against.

Hannibal turned off the lights in the bedroom and then joined him in bed.

“Yes, Will. I had assumed your were embarrassed, and I did not wish to humiliate you further,” he explained gently, positioning himself close to Will.

Will couldn’t imagine being more humiliated than he was at the moment. “What do I do?”

Hannibal was equally gentle with his words, as though he didn’t want Will know the truth of the matter, but wouldn’t hold it from him. “You look pained when the water touches you. You whimper and moan as though you are frightened.”

Will wiped at his eyes, ignoring the sting of his scar at his rough touch. “I feel safe when you’re with me in the shower. I can’t even consider doing it without you there.” In the darkness, he found Hannibal’s hand. “What do I tell Dr McClane?”

Hannibal kissed Will’s shoulder.

“That you wish to improve.”

*****

In the shower the following morning, Will let out a startled wail as though he’d been struck when the water hit his skin and for the first time realised that he’d even had a response. Humiliated, he closed his eyes and felt the thick knot of tears in his throat. Large, warm arms pulled him close, an act of comfort that Hannibal had calculated to please and settle Will, but one he wouldn’t turn away. He found himself weeping and flinching as the water continued to wash over them.

*****

“I’ve started taking sponge baths. The shower is too stressful now that I’m aware of my…”

It was the following session with Dr McClane and he felt raw and wounded. He didn’t like dwelling on the humiliation he’d felt that morning sitting on the edge of the bathtub and soaking a washcloth in sudsy water pooled at his feet. He’d locked Hannibal out of the bathroom then, not wanting to be watched, not wanting judgment or advice. And though he didn’t want to talk about it to her either, there was little choice if he wanted solutions.

And she was prepared to help. “There is therapy for this. You may never get over it entirely, but you’d be able to shower or stand in the rain without a problem.”

Will nodded. “I’d like that.”

“There will be certain things that might continue to trigger you: sprinklers, high pressured water faucets, water guns, getting splashing in a pool. Unanticipated contact with water will immediately get a reaction, so we’ll go over a list of things to avoid until you’re better equipped to handle them.” She clasped her hands over her knee. “Summer will be here in a few months and I’m sure you’ll want to experience the fresh air and the sunlight.”

Will gave an amused snort—all of his summer activities involved solitude, unless he was well enough to visit the compound in which he’d consider sailing the boat Hannibal had given him. Running through sprinklers and water gun fights weren’t anything he’d miss out on.

“And you have a boat, Will?” she asked pleasantly, as though she knew where his mind was.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “We can get you ready for sailing again, too.”

“I’d like that,” he admitted and felt the smallest seed of hope begin to grow within him.

*****

“Have a treat for you today.” Tony pulled a handful of packets out of his scrubs pocket. “What’s your favourite flavour?”

It was morning and Will still had a gritty, chalky texture in his mouth that he would welcomingly wash out with the strawberry Koolaid he pointed to.

“Great choice. I’ll go to the kitchen and mix up a pitcher,” Tony said pleasantly, leaving Will will he dressed himself in something comfortable for the day.

He returned after a few minutes and poured a plastic cup of the reddish liquid for Will. “Okay, it’s going to be room temperature, which I know sounds pretty gross, but anything that’s cold is going to feel terrible, ‘kay?”

Will nodded. Koolaid made Will think of the one summer his dad had let him sell paper cups of Koolaid to dockworkers because lemons for lemonade were just too expensive. He’d made a profit of fifty dollars, which he split with his dad. Unwrapping the straw Tony had brought for him, he drank the Koolaid slowly, careful not to let anything drip on the couch; Tony poured him a second cup, then began to run through the usual routine of taking Will’s temperature and heart rate, making small talk about his family’s home in Miami.

Abigail had returned to the Residence to pick up something from the Treaty Room and decided to make a stop to see him. Will could hear Abel Gideon speaking to the agents outside the door, but felt no worry that the man would be allowed inside.

“What’s that?” Abigail asked, looking down at the cup he’d been drinking from.

“Strawberry koolaid.”

“Are you drinking it?”

Will nodded.

“Do you like it?”

He nodded.

“I’ll try some, too.” Abigail boldly took the glass and drank from it, swallowing down half of it before making a face. “It’s too sweet. Made my throat dry.”

Tony had a disapproving look on his face that she was not only drinking Will’s treat, but that she was contaminating it. Will wondered what Tony would think of how he’d once swapped blood with both Lecters on a boat. Will fondly clasped at her freehand, suspecting that it was the first time she’d been allowed to try the drink since being adopted.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your reading and whatever you’re up to this morning,” she said kindly before kissing his cheek.

She promised to see him again after she finished work and reminded him to call her office if she needed anything before she left the room. The serenity he felt from her spontaneous visit put a smile on his face, though the moment he saw the scowl on Tony’s face, his happiness faded.

“I’m not having an affair with her.” _I’m having an affair with your crush._

“I know. I saw the White House briefing.” Tony obviously wasn’t a believer.

“I mean it.”

“Look, I’m not here to judge—“

“Tony, listen to me. My relationship with Abigail is not romantic. You don’t have to give her that _look_ every time she walks into the room,” Will said, annoyed he had to defend himself and the young woman he loved as a daughter.

“Your wellbeing is my priority. And if she in any way jeopardises that, I will do something about it.” He grabbed the now empty cup and damp, stained washcloth of the coffee table and said stiffly, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Brauer looked over at Will. “Do you think he’ll treat Hannibal like that?”

“Hannibal’s never the problem to anyone else,” Will snipped.

Brauer smirked and turned his attention back to the window.

*****

Will had managed to sleep through Hannibal’s early morning call that told him the general information for the day and didn’t wake until the sun was starting to rise; Hannibal was dressing for Mass, though he paused in buttoning up his waistcoat as his eyes met Will’s. Will said nothing, simply watched the way Hannibal’s hands moved and his clothing shifted over the build of Hannibal’s body.

“When I return, we shall spend the day together. The three of us,” Hannibal said once he was completely dressed.

It was then that Will noticed a small box had been placed on his nightstand. He sat up in bed, staring at it until Hannibal retrieved it. From it, Hannibal removed Edvardas Lector’s wedding band and Will felt his breath catch in his throat; he’d remembered it sporadicly since returning home, but never at the right times to ask Hannibal if it had indeed made it back to the safety of his hands.

“I wasn’t aware you had started wearing it.” Hannibal’s eyes held hunger.

“It helped ground me,” Will admitted, remembering how he’d been unable to get through the day without feeling it against his skin, against his thumb.

“May I put it on you?”

Will held out his right hand; Hannibal said nothing, instead bringing Will’s hand to his lips, pressing his knuckles softly to his mouth. He could tell that Hannibal was breathing in the scent of his skin and while that still had such a weird connotation to him, he said nothing as well.The intimacy and promise of the ring proved to be too much for Will and he found himself unable to keep the moment completely serious.

“What about my teeth? I know you were sent those, too.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched, concealing most of the smile that wished to escaped.

“Will you want a ring, too?” Will asked, his throat suddenly tight with the idea of how it would feel to slip a ring on Hannibal’s finger as well.

“If you wished for the symmetry.”

Will’s own dad had never worn a ring and from what he’d gathered over the years of growing up was that there had never been a ring in the first place. But to see one on a creature so wicked as Hannibal, as though Will had collared a tiger…Will thought it would be beautiful in a way no one else would ever understand. To have Hannibal marked in a role of domesticity.

“I want to choose it for you…if that’s okay?” he asked hesitantly.

Hannibal’s hand covered Will’s, warming the ring and his skin. “I would be honoured, Will.”

The ring’s return to Will’s life jogged his memory about something else he’d been too drugged up to ask earlier on.

“What happened to my phone?” He gestured to the identical replacement that was currently resting on the nightstand as well.

“It had a safeguard in place to scramble the information should we send the necessary signal to it. Once it was discovered you were missing, the signal was automatically sent. Originally there was concern that it had been on you, but it was later found within your bag. It had been thrown in the dumpster with the bodies of your agents. It was not compromised.”

Will felt an immediate relief that he’d not jeopardised his family’s safety or White House security; BlackBerrys were easy enough to hack and to have the device of a person who was so close to the President would be a priceless source of information.

However, there was something that Will hadn’t quite forgotten, but wasn’t at the forefront of his mind was the discussion. He was tempted to pull his hand out from under Hannibal’s, but didn’t want to make the moment more awkward than he already felt.

“We were going to announce that we were in a relationship. Are in a relationship.”

He looked up to Hannibal for guidance. Admitting publicly that he was in a relationship with a man was completely terrifying to him, and now that there had been time placed between himself and the problem that had forced him into the position where he needed to confess his relationship to the nation, he found himself with guilt at his reluctance to go through with it now.

“Abigail has requested that she be the one to take the attention for the time being. She is concerned that you will feel vulnerable with the public and news media’s speculation,” Hannibal told him and Will eyed him suspiciously.

“I don’t want to throw her to the wolves.”

“She has made this choice on her own. Do you wish to deprive her of it?” Hannibal asked, as though he’d ever cared about her opinions before.

Will frowned at Hannibal, not at all liking the fact that the other man was making this sound as though there weren’t other options for the situation, but didn’t want to argue just yet.

“I need to make a plan.” His stomach clenched as he reached out to hold Hannibal’s wrist, not wanting him to leave.“I want to apologise for how I treated you. With the dog collar and all that shit.” His voice was barely a murmur, eyes cast down at the duvet.

“You and I will forever wish to push one another. You have nothing to apologise for,” Hannibal assured him.

Will let go of the other man’s wrist. “It was still selfish and…unhealthy.”

“I agree. You are forgiven.”

Hannibal pressed a chaste kiss to Will’s lips. “Go to sleep.”

Will allowed himself to be settled back into the bed once more and let the quiet sounds of Hannibal moving about the room lull him back into the dreamless dark.

*****

When possible, Abigail had started to schedule brunch with Will, creating the affair to have a very formal atmosphere as though she was roleplaying First Lady in an important meeting. They sat at a table by the window, just the two of them—she considered it a subtle way to start teaching him how to attend formal luncheons. After all, at some point he would have to return to the public eye and she needed him to be prepared for the role he’d be expected to fill while he sat at her father’s side. She was very proud that she could lead him by example, that with his subconscious desire to mimic social situations, she could shape his etiquette into something more palatable.

Alas, he was still very distracted by the presence of the dogs.

“Back just in time for taxes,” she announced as she pretended not to see him feeding Applesauce yet another bit of kibble that was hidden in his cardigan pocket. “When I was little, Daddy used to let me come with him to his assessor’s office and I was allowed to handle all the papers.” She paused. “Could I do your taxes?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I usually do them online.”

“I’m very good at organising,” she insisted, hoping that he could trust her.

She wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer and thankfully, he understood that. “If it’ll make you happy.”

No, it wasn’t about that making her happy, it was about taking care of him, letting him focus on his recovery.

He looked out the window they were seated beside. “I’m never going to go back to Wolf Trap, am I?”

“I wouldn't feel that you'd be safe. When you said,” she swallowed hard, “when you said that I wanted you locked up in a cage, you were half right. This place is a cage, but at least we'd be together. I don't ever want you out in the world again. That's how you get hurt.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s your dad speaking.”

“Well, I don’t care because he’s right. You can’t get hurt in here, because all that’s out there would have to get past me first.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, as though he’d tasted something bitter.

“You know, the insurance policy you’re leaving me is really shitty, so don’t die. I can’t do anything with ten thousand dollars,” she scolded, needing him to understand the hurt she’d felt when she’d realised his mortality. “I can’t even pay for a semester at GWU with that. How could you consider abandoning me while you’re _poor_?”

He look stunned, devastated that he’d let her down and she turned her attention to the plate, flaking the sea bass she was having for lunch with the tines of her fork.

“You’d better marry into our family first,” she told him softly. “What kind of father does that to a child? At least as a Lecter, your policy will be higher.” She put a resolute smile upon her lips. “You’ll be happier here anyway. Everything you want is here.”

*****

Because Will had refused additional therapy with a professional, Tony had insisted that Will do light exercise for at least forty-five minutes a day; a yoga dvd was produced and clad in a pair of sweats from the Secret Service gift shop and one of Hannibal’s white undershirts, Will and Tony followed through the yoga motions, listening to the obnoxious tranquil music and the instructor explaining how to ‘align’ his chakras. While Will still didn’t particularly care for it, he did notice he was becoming more limber, that his joints no longer ached as much when he woke. And Brauer was considerate enough to turn his attention to a magazine or book and spare Will the indignity of his inflexibility.Tony always rewarded them both with pudding cups after their yoga sessions and while Will had never cared for them, they were better than the protein smoothies he was still forced to drink. Occasionally, he requested a second and third pudding cup, which Tony never denied.

The White House dental staff had set up a consultation with Will to make a plan for the surgery needed for his dental implants and he’d spent the entire time surly. They’d decided that he’d receive the dental work in May, after his jaws were unwired, and had explained the process to him, which sent his heart racing at the thought of having to be sedated and operated on. The dentist and orthodontist both expressed concern about his weight and over all health, that there was worry about nerve damage to his gums and healing tongue, that they were watching closely for any sign of a lingering infection in his mouth. Will had tuned them out after awhile, too anxious to think about it any further.

Hannibal still had himself listed as Will’s primary physician, but he’d allowed the White House physician to check Will over weekly, as Jack had determined there was a conflict of interest considering Will was at the moment a White House resident and employee. The doctor was a slight woman who was very visibly uneasy with Will’s injuries and he was glad to know she didn’t know about his relationship with Hannibal because the last thing he needed from her was pity, too.

His medical problems were few, but they all remained at the forefront of his mind: only one of his missing fingernails was growing in, his scar was healing but now formed an angry red line from his eye to his mouth, and the last ailment was one he’d not encountered until his return to DC. Will had found he could no longer get it up when he was with Hannibal—performance anxiety, which was as frustrating as it was humiliating. He didn’t have the courage to google it on his BlackBerry, knowing that all White House internet usage was monitored and that someone would see that ‘erectile disfunction’ had appeared on his search history. Was there a possibility that it was linked to his slowly recovering health? Or was it due to the festering anxieties that plagued him constantly, the unrelieved reminder that his face no longer resembled the one Hannibal had first seen?

At night, Hannibal seemed content with their ritual of being close, of rubbing his body against Will as though they were fucking, of jerking off into his own hand. And some nights, it was obvious to Will that Hannibal was too exhausted and had no interest in sex, which came as a relief to Will, who could instead enjoy the sublime feeling of being close, of being held, of hearing another breathing.

Hannibal had made no comment, not that Will believed for one second that the other man hadn’t noticed. There had been no withdraw of Hannibal’s affections to him, but with the way he himself held back from attempting participation, Will wondered how long it would take before Hannibal addressed the issue and a hard knot of dread resided in Will’s stomach constantly. Would Hannibal grow weary of Will’s personality and difficulties? There was only so long he could go before they’d have to talk.

And it was true that neither of them had been above using sex as a weapon with one another months ago, but Will knew that their physical intimacy had smoothed over many of the disagreements they’d had. And the way he had treated Hannibal during the time they’d fought still made him ashamed and nauseous. It had felt out of character for him, but then he didn’t want to make excuses for what he’d done.

Tony had picked up on the melancholy state and offered to turn on the television in the sitting room. Will had declined and locked himself in the bathroom instead, sitting in the bathtub in the dark until Hannibal was called to coax him out.

*****

Growing up, Will had devoured books, so he was pleased to when Abigail came to visit one afternoon for an hour and looked over the book Tony had bought him with interest; she studied the back and then the front before reading the back again, and wishing to bond with her, offered,

“Would you like to read it?”

She looked surprised. “Are you done with it?”

“I’ve read it before.”

“All right.” Her face brightened. “Is it good?”

“It’s interesting. Wrote a paper on it once.”

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “You did? What one? I’ve bought nearly everything you’ve published.”

“High school.”

She nodded knowingly. “Oh, we had a harder time obtaining that work.”

“Well, at least you can sleep well knowing you did a thorough job,” he said drily.

“We did it so that we understood you,” she assured, as though the behaviour wasn’t extreme or vaguely troubling.

“If you like it, I can recommend others,” he suggested, wanting to drop the matter altogether.

“I’d love that. When Daddy recommends books to me, they’re…” she paused to choose her words carefully. “They’re _interesting_. But it will be nice to try books that I wouldn’t choose for myself.”

By the end of the week, the pile of books had grown from one to sixteen; Will had ordered them mostly used, a few being followups to Joseph Campbell’s work. Abigail was devouring them, much to Will’s happiness and he saw them as a way to bond that he’d never had with his own dad. She’d highlighted on the original book he’d given her, so Will was more than happy to highlight and annotate passages for her that she might find interesting, though he was careful not to pick too much that might be considered undue influence, sticking instead to key terms for her to look up.

*****

“What are you doing, Will?” Hannibal asked one night as he was starting to fall asleep.

“Hmm?” He turned onto his side.

“All of the books you are giving Abigail. Don’t think I’ve not noticed what you’re doing,” Hannibal said, his voice low and dangerous.

Will opened his eyes, now awake. “What am I doing?”

“You’re trying to instigate a rebellion. Creating a foundation for her to stand upon.You both think she is capable of handling the responsibility of freedom.”

“You don’t?” Will asked, disgusted because he _knew_ that Hannibal didn’t wish to give her freedom. “What were you expecting to happen to her if something happens to you? That she’ll just throw herself into the funeral pyre like a widow?”

“I’d always planned on taking her with me.”

Will sat up and shoved Hannibal hard, needing to get distance from him. “Stay away from her. Fucking psychopa—“

“I will not justify myself to you, Will. I love you, but I will not stop who I am simply because that is what you wish of me,” the other man said, his voice slightly raised.“And I love her. I am not suicidal and lonely.”

“Let her have the books. It’s not some grand conspiracy against you.”

“I do not like you _lying_ to me.”

“Get out.” Will threw the blankets off of them. “I love you, too, but I’m not sleeping in a bed with someone who’d murder their child.”

Hannibal left without another word, wrapped in his dressing gown. Will wrapped himself up in the blankets, body shaking in anger as he sat in bed, feeling his own need to rebel. How dare Hannibal say something so horrifyingly evil like that. How could anyone wish to take life away from someone they loved?

About ten minutes later, to his surprise, Abigail appeared in the doorway with her pillow and the dogs.

“Daddy said you weren’t sharing the bed tonight. So I came to keep you company,” she explained.

He doubted that she’d come out of sympathy, but as an order from Hannibal, whether he’d been overt or not. But he didn’t resist, grateful that he wouldn’t be sleeping alone. She joined him in the bed, snuggled under the warm comforters.

In the complete dark of the room, her voice sounded small and out of place. “What did you fight about?”

“You.” He didn’t dare lie to her.

There was movement to his right that indicated she’d rolled over to face him. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Worry colored the soft and hesitant way she spoke. “Is he mad at me?”

He found her hand. “No. Go to sleep.”

*****

The next afternoon when Tony went to retrieve lunch for Will, Brauer took the opportunity to talk to him in private.

“Everything okay with you and the President? I was told you slept apart.”

“He needed to wake up early and didn’t want to interrupt my sleep, so he thought it would be best to go back to his room for the night,” Will lied.

“Right. He must have meant that when he said he was working late and didn’t wish to keep you up.”

“Shut up,” Will snapped, cheeks and ears burning in shame at being caught.

Tony walked back with a tray. “Tomato soup this afternoon. Hope you like it creamy.”

“Did you make it?” Will asked, staring at it uneasily.

“No, the kitchens did. They deliver it up to the kitchen—“ Tony frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Will mumbled, “Don’t want it.”

“You don’t like how they make the soup?” He lowered the tray. “What do you want?”

“Want me to run down to the canteen and get the soup of the day?” Brauer offered, regarding Will with concern.

“What about the protein shakes?” Will asked weakly.

“Well, yeah, but—“

“I’ll just drink the protein shake.”

“Right, but you can start integrating regular food into your diet now. Things that will taste good,” Tony insisted.

Will felt embarrassed, but shook his head. Tony frowned, but seemed to see no other choice than to do as his patient wanted.

“Okay, I’ll get the powder.”

*****

“Abel, I promised the Vice President that you would continue taking your medication.”

Abel spun around and stared at Hannibal. They were waiting in the Oval Office for the First Lady to wrap up her monthly recorded message to the public about her own office’s progress with changing healthy eating in America; afterwards the three would then make their way back to the Residence for supper and then they would leave him again to be with Will Graham.

At the moment, Abel had been pacing aimlessly by the desk, lost in thought about the direction he should groom Abigail’s social graces next—it would be crucial to begin defining her as the one with the most potential to be the succeeding Kennedy legacy, despite her not being an actual Kennedy. All the other Kennedy children her age were either too ugly or bland to be a worthy successor to the mantle.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, a smile quickly coming to his lips in an attempt to deflect responsibility.

“You are not taking your medication,” Hannibal repeated

Abel considered lying, but he suspected that would make the situation worse and now the only thing he could hope for was compassion.

“What gave it away?”

“Small things.”

“I can’t, Hannibal. I can’t take those pills anymore. They’re stripping me of my entire sense of being. I hate it. I hate how it makes me feel. I can’t bear it.” Now Abel beganto wring his hands as his pacing took him off-course and he wandered from furniture piece to furniture piece. “I’ve been exercising and eating right—finally lost that bloat I’ve had for years. I’ve only just started to feel like my old self again. I’m not dangerous. I’d never hurt or Abigail or Will or Bedelia—you’re all my family. And I’d never want to ruin that. I follow all of these asinine rules that treat me like a child, so that the Secret Service will stop looking at me as though I’ve brought rabies into the White House.” He could feel the anxiety within him rising like the tide and afraid he might drown Hannibal in rambling, he quickly forced himself to get to the point. “I won’t allow my mind to be taken from me. I’d rather die.”

Hannibal had been leaning on the edge of his desk and now stood straight watching Abel’s every movement, waiting to see where he stopped. “And how will you explain yourself when the results of your urinalysis come back, showing you haven’t been on your medication, Abel? One of the mandatory drug tests is coming up for White House employees.”

“I don’t know how to beat the system,” he admitted, filled with despair—the fear of spontaneous drug tests was something that had been keeping him up at night.

Three beats of his heart, three long seconds and then Hannibal offered quietly, “Would you like my help?”

“Yes. Please, Hannibal.” Abel gripped the back of the sofa hard, trying to maintain composure. “They want to take me away from all of this and I can’t go back.”

Hannibal placed a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “I know.”

*****

It was nearly halfway through the month and while Will had been entirely cleared to eat soft normal foods, he’d found himself balking at the prospect, nasty worry creeping up on him every time he was presented the opportunity. What if he ate something that Hannibal had come in contact with, had contaminated intentionally?

“I’ll have a protein shake for lunch,” he said when Tony offered him a choice of puréed lentil soup, cream of chicken with blended kale soup, or fresh tomato soup.

“Will, if there’s something wrong with the food _I’ve_ been offering you, just tell me. I can have someone else make it or different ingredients—whatever you want, buddy.”

‘Buddy’ was often a sign that Tony was at wits’ end for dealing with him and had become a frequent part of his lexicon as of late, as though he could manipulate Will with their perceived friendship.

“I just want the shakes. I’m used to them,” Will insisted, defiance growing in his voice.

“Would you at least try some of the soup?”

“I can’t.”

Tony sighed in the way a parent might sigh about a child who had picky tastes. “Is it your teeth? Does your mouth hurt? Or are you afraid it will hurt?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think you should.”

“I’m going to go into the sitting room to eat,” Will said defensively, taking an empty glass, his water bottle, and the single serving packet mix with him.

Tony knew better than to chase after him now, as Will would respond by retreating to the bathroom and locking himself inside until Hannibal was able to talk him out, which might be hours away. Once settled on the couch, Will angrily began to tear open the packet and empty it out in the glass. Brauer had followed him in with his own tray of lunch from the canteen and had seated himself in the chair Dr McClane used. His plastic knife and fork scraped on the paper plate, cutting up the meatballs in the daily special’s spaghetti. Will fussed with his protein powder and stirred the thick globules until they stopped clumping to the sides.

“Will.”

Brauer slid a plastic Jello cup across the coffee table to him and Will was quick to snatch it up. 

“Thank you.”

“Eat it now and I can take it out with my trash. No one will have to know.”

That ‘no one’ was obviously meant to mean Hannibal, as though Will was being petty and trying to sneak junk food into the household. Not that he would correct his agent. Will poured part of his water bottle into the Jello cup to melt it, then drank it down in thirsty gulps. The sweetness was sharp and the artificial flavors that made up the claim of ‘strawberry’ seemed alien in his mouth.

“Better?”

Will nodded and handed the empty plastic cup back to his senior agent.

“Is this about Tony?” Brauer crumpled the cup in one fist and let it fall onto his tray. “Look, if you don’t like him because he’s gay or because he’s Latino, I don’t care—I can get someone else to serve your food.”

Will cringed at how easily Brauer hid his distaste at the possibility Will might be a bigot, and he was quick to explain what was bothering him. “I want to eat things that are sealed. That no one else can touch.”

“I can have that arranged.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Will pleaded, hating himself for begging.

“Got it.”

*****

By the end of the week, Will had lost another pound, which had received him a lecture from Tony about ‘proper eating habits’, to which he made his nurse leave three hours earlier than usual. He’d been drinking down the protein shakes every two hours, becoming nauseous at how bland they were. He had too much pride to ask for something chocolate flavored. As he and Hannibal readied themselves for bed, Will found he was still hungry and mixed one last protein drink before bed; he’d already brushed his teeth, but was willing to live with a night of plaque to fill his stomach.

He walked back into the bedroom, sucking on the straw as best as he could, gulping the drink back. When he’d had as much as he could, he set what was left of the glass in the mini fridge hidden behind a wood panel to blend in with the rest of the room; the rest would be discarded in the morning when Tony came. Wiping his mouth delicately with a tissue and then balling it up.

“I thought you were to be finished with those,” Hannibal commented, his voice measured.

He looked away, tossing the tissue into the room’s wastebasket. “I like them.”

“This is about me.”

“Of course it’s about _you_ ,” Will said, sneering the words, suddenly needing to emote how angry and hateful he felt towards the other man for fucking up his entire perception of food.

“Will, you have my word that I will not—“

“I don’t want your food,” Will snapped, his voice louder than intended.

While nothing about Hannibal’s face changed, there was a coolness in his tone that made it clear to Will that he wasn’t happy with Will’s noncompliance. “Very well.”

That night Will slept as close to the edge of the bed as he could, not wanting to touch the other man, to feel his influence. Hannibal left in the morning after the wake-up call, not lingering or offering any early affection, which was as painful as it was a relief for Will. He felt the beginning gnawing of hunger and took his one of the pre-measured protein powder mix packets out of the mini fridge, grabbed a fresh glass off the side table by the door and dumped the contents in. In the bathroom, he mixed lukewarm water into the mix, stirring it aggressively with the end of a straw. When he emerged, he stopped in his tracks upon seeing Abigail in the room with a tray of food.

“Hi,” she greeted. “Daddy told me to have breakfast with you.”

Will eyed a cup of something soft looking that was most likely for him, as he couldn’t chew the eggs and fruit also on the tray. “I don’t want it.”

She raised an eyebrow as she brought the tray over to his nightstand, suggesting she wanted him to have breakfast in bed. “Why not?”

“I’m not accepting food from either of you.”

“I made it.”

“I don’t care.”

A hint of irritation and impatience had made its way into her voice. “It’s chia seeds that were soaked overnight with cocoa powder and palm sugar.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“There’s nothing wrong with it! Why do you think I’m trying to trick you?” Her voice had become louder.

“Your dad had access to it.”

Her eyes went wide. “You think he would go through all that trouble?”

“I know he would.”

“What would he get out of it? At this point—“

“At this point, it’s about control. He lost control over me. This is a small and secret way he can get it back.” He winced and held his jaw where he’d pulled to hard at the wires that were keeping his mouth shut.

“That sounds paranoid, Will,” she said, her tone almost a warning.

“Does it? Truly?”

She broke eye contact with him. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”

He shook his head. “I only want food from third parties who can’t be compromised.”

“You really don’t trust me?”

“Don’t equate my trust levels with love. I don’t trust anyone.”

“I’m going to leave this here. If you want to eat it, fine.”

She stormed out of the room and Will huffed, not feeling guilty at all for rejecting them. He’d rather starve than validate their cannibalism.

*****

Abel walked along the sheltered portico path slowly, feeling the slight warmth of the winter sun upon his face. Winter soon to become spring. The two dogs were sniffing at the ground curiously, where squirrels had begun to venture now that they were coming out of hibernation. He was outside of the Oval Office, as the dogs seemed to like that patch of lawn the best; walking the dogs had started to lose its novelty, but it was important to show the Lecters that he was still useful for them, even if this was a waste of his talents. He would be much better used writing speeches or training Abigail exactly how she needed to compose her path to future political roles, even if she said she had no desire to be a politician.

The puppy’s ears perked up as she observed the people at the White House’s gates, assessing if they were a threat or stragglers in a herd. Lately, she’d been nipping at the East Wing’s ankles, giving in to her heeler instincts, trying to round anyone standing to cluster with others. There was a groomer for the dogs downstairs, one who also cared for the Secret Service’s unfriendly german shepherds, and Abel considered taking the First Family’s pets down to be cleaned, as he’d seen the way Hannibal detested the dog hair that clung to clothing and furniture.

And on the matter of Hannibal, his palms immediately began to sweat; brokering a deal with Hannibal so that he wasn’t subjected to his medical felt as though he’d impulsively made a deal with the devil. He’d always considered Hannibal to be one of his few remaining friends after the trial and while he still thought of the other man that way, Abel was beginning to realise that he was seeing a side of Lecter that he’d previously been unaware of. What had changed Hannibal to be so… _conniving_?Abel had never remembered him that way. Though it was true that no one could enter politics and remain unaffected. It was just a disappointment that the taint of power had managed to touch the man now president. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the portico doors opened behind him and the rather attractive Ms Bloom walked out, carrying a handful of manilla files. Her eyes widened when she saw him and he straightened his posture, offering her a pleasant smile. Her own expression became steely, but he didn’t allow that to deter him from speaking to her.

“Ah, Ms Bloom. How are you today?”

“I’m well, Mr Gideon. And yourself?” She didn’t look as though she cared.

“I’m very well.” Her stern look hadn’t changed and when the two dogs tugged at their leashes, Abel recalled that she had a reason to be upset with him. “Ah, I hope you have forgiven me for that little lie I told you over Christmas.”

“I don’t like being lied to. Not even for charitable reasons,” she informed him tightly.

“Well, I apologise for doing it. I meant no harm. It was for a good—”

“Good afternoon, Mr Gideon.”

“A good afternoon to—“ He wasn’t able to finish the sentence as she’d already turned around and went through the Palm Room’s doors. “Well, I’m sure she can’t stay angry forever. She is a reasonable woman.”

He hoped his humiliation didn’t show to the agent with him; he turned his face to look out across the lawn, feeling the heat in his cheeks at being so angrily slighted by her. He’d always been attracted to Alana, having worked with her during part of Du Maurier’s campaign to be senator. If he’d not been married at the time, he would have definitely pursued her as a viable candidate for a ‘Mrs Gideon’. She’d never returned any sign of interest, but he was certain that if she just got to know him, that would change.

The dogs started to tug at their leashes again, having spotted a squirrel, and Abel contemplated letting the dog leashes go so that the agents might run after them, and then he’d be able to follow after Ms Bloom uninterrupted, but reigned himself in, knowing that if he was going to manipulate her again, it would have to be at a much subtler level.

*****

Abigail stood halfway between the sofa and the bookshelf, eyes focused on the news segment they had playing quietly in the background. There was a man on the screen in the deserts of Afghanistan, blindfolded and on his knees; another man stood behind him, face concealed by a black cloth wrapped around. It was a freeze-frame of a recording and there was a bold tag that the news station had posted at the bottom declaring that a journalist had been beheaded. She studied the image with consideration, knowing that the man with the hidden face surely held a large machete or blade behind the knelt form of the other man. The hostage looked tired, gaunt, and while his eyes weren’t revealed, she knew there would be fear in them. She considered how many times she’d seen this very expression on other people’s faces as they languished in the basement of her Baltimore home—people weary and fearful of the death they knew awaited them. The hostage’s hair was dark and stood out starkly against the pale blue sky, devoid of clouds. At least he would die in the sun. Will had been kept underground and had Dolarhyde decided to go through with an execution, it too would have happened in the cool and dank bunker-like structure of the mansion in Florida.

Abigail had seen the video tour of the decrepit building that the Secret Service’s investigatory team had made for she and her father to watch, so that they might know exactly where Will had been all those months; it had been an ugly place, a former care home many decades ago, owned by Dolarhyde’s maternal grandmother. In the subfloors, there had been an attempt to create additional functional rooms, but that close to a coastline, the water table had been too high to keep the dampness out and it had been abandoned, until REDDRAGON took over. It was horrible and dark, all dour concretes and cheap flood lights. If Will had died down there, it would have been sealed and transformed into an excessive tomb, silent and cold. 

As her eyes focused on the hostage’s face and the fear there, she realised that he wasn’t a nameless stranger, but Will, frightened and unable to get help. Abigail felt her throat seize up and her book fall from her hand. The next thing she knew, she was opening her eyes to look up at Will leaning over her, eyes wide in fear.

“What happened?” Her father asked and she could hear him standing from his chair.

“She fainted.” Will’s voice sounded strange that his jaws were still bound together; there was a pallor to his face and his brows were knitted tightly. “Abigail—baby, what happened?”

“I…I fainted.” That seemed to be the only logical conclusion, which was startling in its own right as she’d never fainted from fear before.

“What did you see?” Will asked gently.

“That man was beheaded. He was a hostage and they beheaded him.” Something twisted in her gut and there was a tightness in her chest, as though a great weight was placed on her ribs. “I didn’t remember that we’d rescued you. I thought…”

Her father crouched down beside her now. “Will is not going to be beheaded, Abigail. Do you understand? I’m never letting either of you out of my sight again. Both of you are entirely safe.”

“Yes,” she breathed in agreement, feeling the start of peace washing over her.

“Good.” He kissed her forehead not once, but twice, and with a patient smile, helped her off the floor.

Her father brushed the lint off her back and arms as she righted the pleats in her skirt, forgetting the book she’d dropped.

“Are you okay?” Will asked, now standing with a hand against the sofa to balance himself.

“I am.” She buried her face against his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re home with me.”

Will said nothing, merely rubbed her back with his hand as he kept her close in his embrace.

*****

The room had been strobing the light for over eighty hours now, but to Elaine it felt like an eternity. She’d tried to block it out—taking off the sweatpants she’d been issued and tying the legs over her eyes in an effort to shield herself. White noise had been fed through the speakers and she’d sang to herself until her throat was raw, trying to keep a grasp on reality. There was a certain irony to the fact that as a former enhanced interrogation expert, she was not able to keep her mind from succumbing to the effects of the psychological torture she’d inflicted on others.

The temperature of the room plummeted and she’d been forced to put the sweatpants back on, her skin stinging from the cement floor. Then the room had become unbearably hot and she’d screamed against the door until her throat was torn, pleading for someone to get her out, please help her. But no one came, which was frightening to her: as a rule, when she’d interrogated people as a soldier, if someone wanted torture to stop in return for information, their request was honoured, so long as they began to talk. She’d been offering to trade intel to them, yet no one was coming.

Maybe a disaster had happened. Maybe the complex had been been evacuated and whatever had happened was fucking up the facility’s interior climate, was why she hadn’t been brought food or water, was why the lights were doing what they were doing.

She shouted to the small camera in the corner, waving her hands in distress, offering the enemies anything they wanted, but she needed to get out of the cell. Finally she’d collapsed on the floor from something terrifyingly close to heatstroke, begging and pleading with Jesus to save her. Her lips moved in silent prayers, maybe hymns she remembered from Easter services that she’d attended as a child. At some point the sound of a hurricane had started and it was then she realised she was dying. Something had happened to her and she was trapped in Limbo or some other horrible in-between space before death finally claimed her. Her throat was parched and her lips had split in a few places, the taste of blood sharp on her dry tongue.

There was a tall figure standing in the opposite corner of the room and she held very still as she watched it. Primordial instinct told her that it wasn’t Jesus Christ; for a moment, she thought he might be Dolarhyde, but upon the figure’s movement towards her, she realised that the shape was wrong, the presence was a different kind of menacing. He held a set of scales in one hand—the right hand—and stood with the rigid posture that all soldiers learned in bootcamp. She couldn’t see his face, but he was dressed the same way she and her fellow soldiers dressed when they interrogated in the wastelands of the Middle East. ACU trouser tucked into the tan-coloured Army Combat boots, a foliage green t-shirt tucked into the trouser. In the back of her mind, she recalled the amendment that authorised soldiers in Iraq to wear the green over the sand tan shirt part of the uniform. The light of the strobe flickered ethereally over the hair on the figure’s arms, giving the impression that the figure’s body radiating light.

“Do you know who I am?” His voice was familiar, was alien.

She shook her head, eyes on the scale. “No.”

“I am Judgement.”

“Oh.” She curled upon herself, understanding now what was happening.

“I will be weighing your sins and transgressions,” the figure stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Start from the beginning.”

She nodded, trying to remember from the beginning of her life what the first bad thing had been. “When I was five…I hit my little sister because she wouldn’t stop crying in the backseat of our car. I felt bad when I saw how scared she was. My mom pulled the car over and spanked me.” Shame had started to creep into her words. “When I was in first grade I cheated on a math test. I read the answers off a previous piece of homework I’d done. I lied to my teacher about what I could do in church choir…”

*****

Earlier in the day, Abigail had requested that Georgia schedule a meeting the dean of GWU and he’d moved his schedule around so that she was able to meet with him before noon. She had decided to continue with her online classes, her major still listed as ‘undeclared’ and her course load still in the ‘part-time’ range, which she thought acceptable considering she was very busy with the White House. She hadn’t been on campus since that horrible article by Freddie had forced her into the refuge of the White House and to her surprise, she felt a yearning to return to the familiarity of the university.

In the dean’s office, she left Barney and her other agents outside the door, along with Georgia and Mrs Madchen. The dean was cordial as ever and as he pulled a chair out for her, he asked,

“May I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Expresso.” He tapped the com system on his desk’s phone as she sat down. “Johnathan, could I have two expressos in here? Thank you.”

Small talk was made in regards to her current grades and the upcoming spring holiday; when the drinks were produced by the secretary, Abigail decided not to play any coy games with the man, considering that she wasn’t regarded with much trust by the public at large.

“I’d like to discuss what can be done about getting Will Graham a doctorate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Does he want one?”

“Yes. He’s been speaking about it with my father and I overheard their conversations on the matter multiple times. I thought I could get him the information he’ll need for the process so he has it to look over while he recovers.”

“Well, it’s probably a conversation I should have with him, if that’s possible.”

“He’s not seeing visitors, I’m afraid. And I don’t think he’s up for phone calls at the moment. You understand—with his facial injuries.”

“Right,” the dean agreed, a look of morbid wonder on his face.

“Is it something he could work on or possibly complete while he’s in recovery? He has so much free time and I know that he’d hate to waste it.”

He looked hesitant. “Well…it’s not common—he’s been out of school for a while. But he could petition the board with a request for writing a dissertation. I can’t imagine anyone denying him. God knows it would look great to have Dr Will Graham employed at GWU.”

“And he’s dying to come back to work. Can’t stop talking about it,” she lied.

The dean now looked confused. “Really? He always gave the impression he was doing it for the health insurance.”

“Well, I’m sure you can appreciate that after such a harrowing event, even something so mundane as returning to work can sound appealing.”

He made an agreeing noise and drank from his expresso. Abigail smiled courteously. He set his expresso cup down in its little saucer and straightened the handle before he steepled his hands and leaned back in his chair.

“If I can be honest with you, First Lady.”

Her smile didn’t falter. She could sense a challenge forming and she was ready for it. “Of course.”

“There is still concern about the nature of your relationship with Mr Graham.”

She nodded, having expected this. “I know that it’s simply my word against Freddie Lounds, but I swear that Will Graham is not and has never been a romantic or sexual partner of mine. He is my father’s best friend and I understand that he might have a certain bias towards me to some extent, but he would never compromise his academic integrity just to make me happy. He is a righteous man, someone whom I’m proud to stand beside and support during his time of need. I didn’t attend his class for a grade. I just wanted to see his lectures. Everyone around me is always talking about how brilliant he is and I wanted to see for myself.” She was always willing to offer concessions when she was certain that the other person wasn’t going to call her bluff. “If the school board would prefer, I can avoid his classes from now on so that my academic transcript won’t be questioned. I can even retake his class exclusively under Professor Foster, if that would be preferable.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” He waved his hand. “But you understand how this looks.”

“I do, but I refuse to allow the court of public opinion dictate how I live my life. Or punish Will for something he didn’t do. Freddie took thirty seconds out of context, slapped a label on it, and then threw it to the masses to judge. If you remember, she once made accusations against my father that were equally upsetting and untrue.”

“Will is going to still be subject to an investigation, should he return to teaching.”

“The school must maintain its integrity,” she agreed.

Glancing over at the windows that overlooked the campus, she added, “And prestige. I’ve always thought that the campus would look so nice with a remodeled library. Something with a refined design, elegant architecture.” She gestured in the direction of the library. “Large windows, sitting areas and technology centres, perhaps a space to showcase various student projects and publications…”

Again he raised his eyebrow. “You’ve been studying my ten year plan for the school.”

She nodded. “We both have the same goal in mind for this school. You’ll be able to add the esteemed Will Graham to your list of PhD graduates, you’ll be able to show the world your beautiful new facilities, and you’ll be able to advertise your school as the place for future American politicians. There are many schools that would love to be able to say that, wouldn’t they?”

Thankfully, he read the subtext of the conversation and gave a slow nod of his own. “I’m certain that I can work something out with Mr Graham.”

“I shall have my lawyer contact you about the donation I’d like to make to the new library. Perhaps have it named after the Kennedy half of my family,” she said thoughtfully.

He gave a small smile. “We are always open to suggestions if the price is right.”

Abigail considered what she would have done if the man had wanted something other than money—sex, connexions, notoriety—and arrived at the conclusion that nothing would have been too much to trade for Will’s happiness. They both took a sip of their expressos.

*****

“Well?” Jack looked expectantly, hopefully at Hannibal who had just reentered the small room deep within the supermax they were currently working in.

Hannibal held up a small digital recorder, setting down the set of scales he’d carried in his other hand. “Everything we need to know.”

The other men and women in the room were various intelligence officers who were working to find Dolarhyde—not because of their concern for Will, but because it was now confirmed that REDDRAGON had been involved in multiple violent bank robberies and were considered a threat to national security at large. They’d invoked the Patriot Act to pull off this little stunt, having Hannibal question Frost in that invasive and twisted way he was so good at. Manipulating anyone in his path to think he was something that he wasn’t.

“Everything?” one of the analystsasked as she took the recorder.

The President nodded rather that dignify the rhetorical question.

“Should we turn off the strobes?” one of the intelligence officers asked; there had been a surveillance feed of the cell that they’d watched and now they glanced back up at tv to see her still lapping at the puddle of saline Hannibal had poured on the floor.

“Not yet.” Hannibal watched the prisoner with a detached interest. “She is in a state of hypnotic suggestion. Another two days with the strobe’s pattern slowly should bring her out slowly enough that she will be brought back to full awareness on her own.”

“That would break her mind,” one of the analysts protested.

Jack had to assume that Hannibal wouldn’t give a shit if someone was tortured to death or to insanity—Elaine Frost was only a resource to getting Dolarhyde. And part of Jack wondered if Hannibal was hoping she’d die to spare Will a trial later on, because they certainly wouldn’t be taking Dolarhyde in alive. But then, that would require some level of compassion or empathy and Jack wasn’t sure the President was capable of that.

Hannibal took his Blackberry and watch from Jack, his interest seeming lost now. “She will realise she’s been manipulated if we pull her out of this state immediately. If she is drawn from this slowly, she will not be sure if it was real, perhaps a horrible dream. Or a near death experience. I suspect she might be more compliant if she does not realise this had actually happened to her.”

The recording would not be used for evidence of a confession, but the information Frost had given would be reframed during her next interrogation so that it sounded as though she had offered it up herself. The recording would never officially exist.

Only the head of the DOJ’s REDDRAGON investigation seemed amused at it all. “Glad you could crack her, Mr President.”

“Thank you for allowing me the opportunity, Agent Krendler.“

*****

Rarely was Hannibal the one in the mood to initiate sex, though he was content to go through the ritual of desire with Will as it seemed to comfort the other man that he was indeed desirable. It had been one of Will’s predominant insecurities and one easy enough to exploit when it benefited him, though messier and often inconvenient compared to other methods.

They’d had a rare evening alone together: Abigail and Abel had traveled to Alaska for the grand opening of a new facility that was packaging school lunches for distribution to students in remote areas. She’d already texted them a ‘goodnight’, mindful of the timezone difference between them. Hannibal had elected to sit beside Will in bed so that they might read together in complete peace; Will had been reading a quarterly fishing journal about the Nassau grouper off the coast of the Bahamas, but was now lying on his back beside Hannibal, staring at the ceiling. Hannibal was pretending to still be focussed on a book about potential for a pandemic, but he was more interested in offering Will a trip for fishing, one that would be private, anywhere in the world he wished to go. Now that it was nearly spring, holidays of all sorts were popping up and that meant he’d be able to use any as an excuse to take Will away for a few days and allow his mind to centre itself.

“Your eyes aren’t moving enough for you to be reading,” Will informed him.

Hannibal closed the book, holding his place by keeping a finger inserted between the pages.

“Do you wish to make love, Will?” he asked, keeping his voice level and curious, not wishing to influence the outcome of the answer.

“I can’t,” Will said unexpectedly—Hannibal had been distinctly aware of Will lack of participation in their nearly nightly sessions, but it was obvious from his tone that he considered the matter to be miserable, not unpleasant. Hannibal closed the book entirely and set it aside.

He leaned over the younger man, fingers touching the long line of Will’s throat. “There are other pleasures we can indulge in. There are other things I can give you.”

Will said nothing, but shifted his body subtly enough to indicate that Hannibal was being given permission to do as he wished. While he often found satisfaction in being completely in control of a situation, Hannibal had become accustomed to Will taking the lead in their bed; he craved sex the most out of the two of them and Hannibal was more than willing to accept the matter passively, imagining himself as a spectator or participant chosen from the massive audience of eyes always on Will. Now Hannibal was expected to indulge his own whims once more.

The room was still warm from the fire he’d made earlier and Hannibal knew that by the end of the hour they’d both be soaking in sweat. Starting at Will’s throat, he licked a long stripe up to his ear, listening to Will gasp, feeling his body jerk involuntarily at the contact. He wanted to leave heavy, passionate marks on Will’s skin, something that would force Will’s nurse to inquire if they’d been following the doctor’s orders of no heavy physical exertion. His teeth tugged at Will’s earlobe gently as he used his hands to loosen the drawstrings of his night pants, pulling them down off his hips and using the movement needed to get them off his legs to reposition himself over Will’s body. Kicking the pants off the side of the bed, he lie between Will’s now parted, but still clothed legs. His fingers threaded through the younger man’s hair, noting it’s length as he lapped at Will’s pulse point, noting that perhaps in the morning he could convince Will to let him wash it over the sink.

The complex wiring system in Will’s mouth occasionally amused Hannibal, bringing about thoughts of braces and a photo he’d seen in Will’s file when he’d had braces in his early twenties. Kisses to Will’s lips were always kept tender and chaste, despite his deepening desire to taste all of him, even now. Will’s eyes were quick to avoid his and his brow furrowed in discomfort at being on display for Hannibal, and he didn’t return Hannibal’s kisses fully, pushed away Hannibal’s hand when he reached to touch Will’s cock. Instead, he gave an impatient huff, his hands finally lifting off the bed to caress at Hannibal’s sides. Will tipped his head back on the pillow, breathing heavy through his nose; Hannibal placed his hand at the base of the younger man’s chin, positioning it in a way that it would keep Will’s jaw entirely closed lest he try to cry out. His fingers rest on the still healing scars and he felt a shiver go up his spine at the slight difference in temperature at the swollen skin attempting to repair itself.

His hips lowered finally to make contact with Will’s and through the thin flannel pyjama bottoms he still wore, Hannibal could feel that his partner was not yet aroused. He wasn’t entirely yet, either, so he didn’t mind and focused instead on kissing, biting, and sucking at Will’s neck to prompt a response from him. Will clung to him, whimpering and giving small groans; encouraged, Hannibal began working his way down Will’s body, noting the frailty as he licked and sucked at Will’s nipples. They were both starting to sweat, Will along his scalp and chest, Hannibal on his back and neck. He continued further down, his tongue in Will’s navel, which elicited a loud gasp and Will’s hands gripping at Hannibal’s hair. He gave a low growl in pleasure, wanting to encourage Will to take the lead.

“Not yet, not yet,” Will gasped, pushing Hannibal’s hand away with both of his.

Hannibal was desperate to have him, to taste him again, but he was willing to respect these new boundaries Will imposed.

“What do you want, Will?” he murmured, not wishing to make the same mistake he had in the hospital room the year before.

“I want you to remind me that you're the most evil thing I've ever had to experience.” Will’s voice was a whisper and Hannibal leaned back onto his knees at this.

Will’s eyes met his for a second then looked away, his expression filled with shame. Hannibalconsidered what was being asked of him, thought of tying up Will’s hands and binding them above his head, but then decided against it; Will’s mobility and freedom would allow him to fight back, and Will seemed as though he needed to fight something eventually. Will’s breathing was quick and shallow, and he seemed to be bracing himself for the unexpected, so Hannibal gave it to him. Hannibal backhanded him roughly on the undamaged side of his face and Will let out a whine, one that sounded distinctly of fear rather than pain.

“You return to my bed and this is all you offer me?” Hannibal asked, his voice measured and calm, studying every response he was given.

“Bruises,” Will begged softly, through his clenched teeth.

He pinched the soft skin of Will’s inner thigh until Will let out a sob of despair, now noting the smell of arousal beginning to waft of the other man’s body. It was earthy and musky, a scent that immediately made his mouth water from the craving of enjoying Will’s body.

Another hard slap, this time sharper so that the sound reverberated against the high ceiling of the room. “Don’t you _ever_ leave me again, Will,” he said, his voice lower, wanting. “This is your place. Do you understand? I am your god. You obey no one but me. You belong here to be used for my amusement and my pleasure.” Hannibal’s hand gripped Will’s hip. “You will eat what I feed you, you will wear what I clothe you in, you will stop saying things like ‘thanks’ and ‘okay’ and stop using that quaint drawl of yours. You will look at my gifts to you and appreciate them, you will _thank_ me for them—”

“No,” Will moaned in protest.

“Yes,” Hannibal hissed through clenched teeth, leaning in to breathe the word against Will’s ear. “Do you think I create art for anyone else but myself? And you deny me? You dare to turn away when I make the body an instrument with which to make music for you.”

“Oh god,” Will moaned, his eyes closing and Hannibal noted with satisfaction that the front of Will’s pants were starting tighten across the front.

He sat back again to take in all of the body beneath him, reveling in the beauty he’d often daydreamed about: Will spread out vulnerably before him, powerless to anything Hannibal wished to do. Satisfied with what he saw, he reached down and grabbed Will’s testicles through the pyjama pants. He squeezed until Will’s eyes opened and he inhaled sharply, his hands grabbing at the pillow his head rest on rather than physically stop Hannibal.

“Were you not taught manners, Will? Is that why you won’t accept what I do for you? Because you were not _taught_ any better?” Hannibal asked, his voice hinting at judgement.

Will’s eyes were watering and his chest heaved, teeth clenched together as he moaned.

“I have killed many people before you, and I will kill many people after you—there is nothing you can do to stop me.” He paused. “I want you to join me.”

Will gave a grunt of pain as Hannibal gave a rough squeeze then let go. Moving further down the bed, he lowered his head to mouth at the outline of Will’s cock which caused Will to immediately reach down and push Hannibal away.

“I can’t—“

“Can’t what?”

“Fucking—“ Will draped an arm over his eyes, chest heaving. “I can’t get it up, Hannibal.”

Hannibal hadn’t anticipated that response, though in hindsight it made sense—Will had apparently come the conclusion that it would be easier on both of them if Hannibal simply masturbated under the guise that Will wanted to be used.

“Shh,” he soothed, “You’re halfway there.”

“What—“

He pressed a hand to Will’s chest to stop him from spoiling the moment. “Lie back, Will. You belong to me.”

“Oh, god,” Will moaned, falling back and spreading his legs further.

Hannibal continued rubbing him through the soft plaid material, noting it was starting to grow damp where Will had started leaking pre-ejaculate.

“How dare you assume you can tell me what to do,” he murmured against the outline of Will’s cock, his lips seeking the warmth.

Will moaned again and Hannibal’s hand stroked along the now firm erection, doubting Will would last very long. One of the younger man’s hands had found its way to Hannibal’s hair, not holding it to direct, but to ground himself. Hannibal’s free hand went to rest on Will’s stomach, his palm and fingers spreading and spanning the hot skin. His teeth grazed along the shape of Will’s cock, tugging at the head just enough to get Will to shiver. Minutes passed of Hannibal using more teeth and Will gasping, tugging at Hannibal’s hair just shy of being painful; Hannibal indulged Will with gentle touches to his undoubtable sore testicles, causing the younger man to writhe until it became too much.

“ _Hannibal_.”

Will’s hips jerked as he came in his pyjama bottoms, his body arching in pleasure.

The sharp, distinct smell of come filled Hannibal’s nostrils and he breathed in deeply, continuing to massage his fingers along the inside of Will’s thighs, listening to Will’s heavy breathing. He opened the front of Will’s pyjama bottoms and leaned back in, licking at Will’s spent cock; Will let out helpless and overstimulated moans softly as he panted, his hand still gripping Hannibal’s hair tightly. Swallowing down the warm, salty spend, a sudden tenderness filled Hannibal and he leaned forward to gently kiss the shaking man, pressing his lips against his cheek.

“Beautiful boy,” he murmured. “I am the one who decides your pleasure. I am the one who decides your suffering.”

Will nodded hurriedly, still breathless and eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. Hannibal teased Will’s earlobe between his teeth, pulling until Will shuddered beneath him again. Satisfied with Will’s reaction, he turned the younger man over onto his stomach, stroking the soft skin at the small of his back. Easing the flannel pyjama pants off Will’s hips and over his thighs, he traced his hand over the hot swell of Will’s ass, looking at the flushed skin on the back of his thighs; the first quelling of arousal had appeared and he glanced down at his own cock, now starting to swell. His hands gently parted Will’s legs as he knelt between them, squeezing Will’s ass with one hand, picturing bruises he might leave. 

Will shuddered and Hannibal leaned in low to kiss his beloved’s nape, allowing him to feel his now almost full erection. A soft inhale of air and Will’s eyes fluttered shut. Hannibal was aware that Will would be exhausted now and would wish to simply go to sleep, but had enough consideration to let Hannibal do what he needed to enjoy the moment.

“Have you ever had a woman eat you out, Will?” he asked, knowing the answer, knowing exactly how his partner would respond.

“Don’t you dare!” Will hissed through his clenched jaws, writhing to get out of Hannibal’s grip.

“Stop,” Hannibal commanded, placing his hand flat on the base of Will’s spine, placating him.

Will stilled, but was tense at the potential of being touched in a way that he associated with legitimate depravity; Hannibal pressed a kiss to Will’s shoulder.

“I’ll spare you…tonight.”

“I don’t want that. Ever,” Will insisted.

“Of course, Will. Anything you want.”

“I want you to get off.”

He traced his hand down Will’s side, always evaluating, always observing. There had been an unofficial recommendation to Will that he not engage in strenuous activity such as sex and Hannibal knew that that would include being the receiving partner. If he couldn’t be inside Will, he’d take the next best thing.

Hannibal didn’t ever consider using only saliva to lubricate and he used one finger to brush against Will as he leaned over to the nightstand to retrieve the small bottle of the silicone-based liquid he preferred. It had an unattractive, but convenient flip top and he poured it in his hand, warming it in the cup of his palm. Kissing the nape of Will’s neck, his chest against Will’s back, he allowed his hand to start coating his own cock and he closed his eyes, savouring the scent and heat of Will’s skin along with the sensation of touching himself. Will shifted slightly beneath him, exhaling softly; Hannibal could smell the small amount of adrenaline reentering Will’s body at the anticipation of the sex to come and he breathed in deep, letting the sweat on Will coat his lips. How he loved him. His sweet, _sweet_ Will. Hannibal’s hand tightened minutely and he allowed himself to thrust shallow in his grip, grazing his teeth along the taut skin between Will’s neck and shoulder. Will shuddered a third time and Hannibal could hear his hands gripping the bed sheets tightly. He smiled, pressing his lips in a kiss along Will’s skin; Will, in the empathy that only a lover could have, angled his hips up and spread his legs open by only a few inches more, but enough for Hannibal to have access to every part he needed. His eyes still closed to heighten the rest of his senses, Hannibal let himself go to feel Will again. With his thumb touching against that hot, tight entrance, he traced at the smooth skin; Will flinched at the touch, but didn’t resist, allowing Hannibal to rub his thumb pad repeatedly over him until Hannibal was certain he’d be able to push in without resistance. He didn’t—tracing his fingers down Will’s warm skin, enjoying the way Will moaned into the pillow as he finally gripped Will’s cock and balls in one hand, noting the small twitch in interest.

Sitting back up once more, he poured the thick liquid over Will’s hole, watching it trickle down the skin to run over his sack and spent cock, soaking into the sheets. Hannibal ran his hands over the flushed skin, coating it and then his own cock again, taking silent pleasure in seeing the head of Will’s cock wet once more, of Will breathing heavy and spread out beneath him. He smoothed the liquid between Will’s ass, which caused the younger man to moan and Hannibal to wet his lips in anticipation of what was to come.

Supporting himself with one hand, he leaned over Will, using his other hand to drag his cock across Will’s entrance, smiling as he listened to the rhythm of Will’s breathing change, his hips canting even still to allow him better access. The head of his cock pressed firmly against Will, as though Hannibal might consider fucking him regardless of the rules and Will moaned.

Rutting against Will had not been the plan for the night, but it was still an indulgent feeling he was ready to give himself; below the pressure of his thumb and over the slick warmth of Will’s skin, he slid his cock slowly through his fist. Will sighed, lifting and moving his hips in a leisurely motion, causing Hannibal to shiver. Draping himself across Will’s body, allowing the solidness of his own weight to settle on the smaller man, he continued rocking his hips.

“There has never been a life before you met me. I am your life. I am your beginning. Your eyes are open now, aren’t they?” he asked, his voice barely louder than Will’s breathing. “The destroyer. The creator. I am your God. I am the beginning and the end. Amen.”

Hannibal kissed Will’s neck and Will let out a small sigh, his fingers finding Hannibal’s hand and twining with them. Smiling, Hannibal focused on the sensations of rubbing against Will so that he was no longer edging himself towards release, but could simply be done with it. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he began to thrust harder, angling himself in a better position for the best yield of stimulation. It didn’t take long and aware that Will enjoyed noise during sex, he gave a strangled gasp as though his orgasm had been torn from his body, then collapsed on top of Will’s back. Theatrics counted.

It took about thirty seconds for Will to wiggle underneath him, trying to get out from under Hannibal’s weight, so he sat back up and allowed Will his own space; Will wouldn’t meet his eyes and instead worked turning back over and removing his pyjama pants that were twisted around his legs. As he tossed the clothing onto the floor, he said softly,

“Whatever you want to say…just say it.”

“Are you finding it difficult to remain attracted to me?” Hannibal had been dreading both the question and the answer, but it felt advantageous to ask it now while Will was vulnerable and emotional.

“No. Not at all.” Will’s voice was filled with shame. “I…I can’t even imagine how I must look. Why would you think it’s you?”

“You’ve had a great deal of time to consider our relationship.” Hannibal had been unwilling to voice the likelihood that Will was now using him a stepping stone to return to a life without the him. “You are quite capable of surviving without me.”

“Are…you upset you didn’t get to rescue me?”

“No, Will. I have no use for a hapless maiden.” Hannibal had felt a consistent relief that Will was strong enough to be with him. “I am simply…concerned that I no longer hold an appeal to you.”

“You’re no longer the most dangerous man I know.” Will rolled his eyes. “You’re such a moron. There’s no thrill to me that you’re dangerous.”

“Yes, there is. A little part of you is excited by it.”

Will didn’t answer right away. “I…like your intelligence. That it’s the weapon you prefer. That’s not the same thing as Dolarhyde.”

No, Dolarhyde’s psychological terrorism had centred around physical threats. “He threatened to break your spine.”

“Would you have put me back together?”

“Naturally.” And Hannibal would have seen it as a privilege.

“What if I’d been paralysed?” Will asked, hesitant.

“I would have kept you.” Hannibal stroked a hand along Will’s wounded cheek and quickly hid the small tremor.“As long as your mind was still functioning, I would have kept you. And should you have been in a condition where you would have wished for death, I would have granted you that, too.”

“How would you have prepared me?”

“Your brain. Sautéed in butter and a few herbs. Shared with Abigail.” He could imagine sitting in a candle lit room with his daughter, both dressed for mourning, smiling at one another fondly as tears dried in tracts down their cheeks. “A favoured bottle of wine…”

“We need to clean off,” Will said after a moment.

“Stay here,” he instructed, allowing Will to lie back on the bed.

Hannibal dampened a hand towel with warm water in the bathroom and returned to the bedto see Will’s eyes half-lidded, exhausted and ready to submit to sleep. Cleaning the younger man was easy enough and he was quick about it, returning to the bathroom to clean himself as well, knowing he could be more thorough in the morning. Will’s eyes were closed and when Hannibal pulled the blankets back over them, Will turned on his side so that Hannibal could fit comfortably behind him. He kissed Will’s shoulder, wishing to taste every inch of skin available to him in that position.

“Keep doing that,” Will murmured.

_I love you_

He mouthed the words against the back of Will’s neck; repeating them slowly so that they merely felt like kisses to the other man.

“Would you let me complete you?”

Hannibal’s breath hitched, having not anticipated the words—Will was obviously still thinking about having Hannibal eat his brain, logical to both of them.

“How could you think it would be otherwise?” he murmured, kissing the man he loved.

“That feels good.”

Hannibal smiled. “I know it does. I want everything to feel good for you. I want you to explore hedonism, Will. To see you experiencing a state of pure pleasure would be a treasure I would cherish.”

Will gave a small grunt as he adjusted his body slightly, making it clear that Hannibal would have to sleep in the damp spot for the night. “Kiss me ’til I fall asleep.”

Ah, affection. That was always the forbidden fruit that the other man denied himself.

“Of course, darling,” he whispered into Will’s skin, adoring the shiver that Will gave at the words.

His lips carefully traced the scars and skin on Will’s shoulder and neck, his hand draped over Will’s side and pressed warm across his belly. Within a minute Will was asleep, breathing slowed and his body relaxed entirely for the first time that night. Hannibal continued massaging Will’s soft paunch; he thought with some amusement that it was the same way he kneaded dough, though he knew Will would not want to be compared to food in any way.

Satisfied that Will was now deep enough in the beginning of his sleep cycle that he would not notice if Hannibal stopped, he withdrew his hand, and pressed his nose and mouth to Will’s spine; he breathed in deeply, mapping Will’s scent. He licked along Will’s spine and shoulder, savouring the taste of sweat on his tongue. Palate satisfied, he selected an area of Will’s shoulder blade to bite; he held the skin between his teeth with slowly increasing pressure until Will finally shifted as a reflex, then let him go. He created four more bite marks, knowing that Will would register the soreness, but not seek to find a source and thus, would remain hidden.

“I love you,” he murmured again, kissing each bite mark tenderly.

*****

While Margot was not privy to the majority of Mason’s secrets and dealings, she had noticed an unusual amount of activity on the property that concerned her. Cordell was as cryptic as ever, but she’d caught him holding back a smile on a few occasions and she’d also noted the odd contentment that had settled over her brother, a sign that he had set something into motion that was halfway through and working well. None of it sat right with her and deciding she needed to take a proactive measure of distancing herself from anything that might put her in a position of being Mason’s pawn, she found the courage during a flight from Austin, Texas back to DC to approach him when he was alone in his office aboard Air Force One.

“May I talk with you, President Lecter?”

He nodded and she shut the door behind her. He offered her the seat beside his desk and she took it, still uncomfortable to be so close to him.

“I feel Mason is planning something. I don’t know what, but I think I should be taken off your detail for now.”

To her relief, he didn’t ask her to explain herself. “I shall have you reassigned to Ms Sakamoto. She is in need of a senior agent.”

She released the breath she’d been holding and nodded. “Thank you.”

*****

As Tony sorted though the plastic gallon bag of Will’s medications and other assorted doctor-prescribed sundries, Will looked at the identification tag clipped to the man’s scrub top. It identified his nurse as a temporary employee, his clearance level rendered to a few enigmatic letters and numbers that Will assumed meant he had clearance to Will, but not to anywhere that Will wasn’t or to any conversation that wasn’t in regards to his patient. But it was the ‘temporary employee’ label that sat uncomfortably with Will.

“Did you have to give up your job to come work here?”

Tony glanced up at him in surprise. “Oh, well, I had some vacation time saved up and sick days, so I’m spending them here. And my paid time off days.”

Unsatisfied with the answer, he prodded for more. “What does Kick’s say? They can’t like that one of their physician’s assistants hasn’t been at work for over a month.”

“Oh, this isn’t—“ Tony;s shoulder’s dropped and his head tilted slightly. “Will, you don’t have to worry about me. When Hannibal called, I told Kick’s where I was going, that I’d be taking care of you. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t worked there in years—he’ll aways be family to us and we wouldn’t turn down any favour he needs.” While Tony had kept his non-professional touching to a minimum, this time he clasped a hand over Will’s shoulder in an amicable way. “Don’t worry—you’re not displacing me by getting better.”

Will tried to manage a smile, only relaxing when Tony let him go and began to remove tubes of ointments from the bag, making small talk about the morning run he’d been on.

*****

Chiyoh wore a deep blue dress, dark charcoal pearls wrapped around her neck, fingers playing them as she stared at him; the expression reminded him distinctly of the way she stared at paintings and insects. To her, he was both art and a creature. Hannibal entered her office, situated on the second floor, and waited politely for her to tell him whatever it was that she’d summoned him for. The afternoon was busy for him, but it didn’t matter. There were meetings, interviews, and other various progresses that were needed to be taken care of, but he was defiantly overlooking them to discover what he needed to offer Chiyoh to persuade her to ease her suspicions of him. She was not officially the White House Press Secretary yet, but she had begun the process of accustoming herself to the staff and the occupation. This office was temporary until Bella formerly stepped down, but it had still been furnished and decorated as though it would remain hers permanently.

Her fingers left her necklace and came to rest on the oak frame of a shadowbox that held a large sapphire blue butterfly the size of a dinner plate. “Senator Gumb sent over the Queen Alexandra's Birdwing last year for Christmas. It is my current favourite.”

“She certainly has a gift,” Hannibal agreed; the butterfly was the male of the species and it had been artfully preserved.

“Sit,” she told him, gesturing to the chaise lounge.

He took her offer and she sat beside him, her eyes now sliding past him to stare at the painting of Montpelier by the office door.

“May I offer you anything?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I trust that your transition has been smooth.”

She gave a small nod, gaze still focused elsewhere. “Hannibal, the Lady Murasaki expressed concern over your character. She wanted me to keep an eye on you in her absence.”

“She was always quite considerate in that regard.”

“She had concerns.” Chiyoh shifted slightly in her seat, not out of discomfort, but to change the subtle aggression in her pose. “Your First Lady has been under the sphere of your influence for a long time. She has all of your manners.”

Hannibal knew the words were meant to be an insult, but hearing them “One would hope.”

Chiyoh looked at him out of the side of her eyes; she radiated a silent loathing and Hannibal cherished her willingness to participate in his game. Wishing to throw an obstacle in her conversational path, he decided to inform her of the change in security procedures.

“Chiyoh, as there is an overwhelming need to protect any high profile member of the White House—specifically those who have personal connexions to me—I have had Agent Margot Verger assigned as your senior agent. She will act as your shadow until the dawn brightens the Capital again.”

Her temper had been masked again. “She’s Mason Verger’s twin. Do you keep your enemies close?”

“Margot is not my enemy. She is an ally.”

“Against Mason?”

“Against anyone who might wish me harm.”

Chiyoh’s voice held a hint of irritation, just enough to make it clear of her feelings for Hannibal. “You bring so much of it upon yourself intentionally. How long will Mr Graham endure the makings of your own hubris?”

“Will and I have an understanding.”

“And the First Lady? She has an understanding with him as well?”

“Abigail is mine. Will is mine. That is all there is to understand.” Chiyoh was not on the short list of those who knew Hannibal’s relationship with Will, but he knew it wouldn’t take long for her to figure it out.

“Our Lady thought perhaps Bedelia was a bad influence on you,” she continued. “Perhaps it is time you sever the strings that tie yourself to your cousin and find someone who would be better suited to your administration’s needs.”

“Is there someone you have in mind, Chiyoh?”

She gave a raise of her eyebrows, dismissing the question as foolish. “I’m sure you have a list of alternatives should something happen to her.”

There was a list of potential replacements if the Vice Presidential position was vacated for whatever reason: assorted politicians who had caught the eyes of Bedelia and Jack, all of whom Hannibal found either boring or insipid.

“I am rather fond of Bedelia in the role she has now. There are many tasks that this office holds that are better suited to her temperament as a true politician.”

“Bedelia is dangerous. She is…” Chiyoh seemed to be weighing the words she wished to use. “Full of very strange ideals.”

“She loves this country and she loves me. What more could I wish for in a Vice President?”

“A moral compass.”

Now it was Hannibal’s turn to dismiss a statement. “She has ethics.”

“People with her past have a tendency to escalate beyond animals.” It didn’t come as a surprise that there were others who knew of Bedelia’s childhood proclivities towards animal cruelty. “I heard she attacked the First Lady.”

“They had a misunderstanding,” Hannibal said, repeating what Abigail had told him.

“You learned to lie from her.”

At this, Hannibal showed his amusement in the form of a small smile. “Is that what the Lady Murasaki told you?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.” Chiyoh sat up a little straighter. “How did her husband die?”

“He choked on his own tongue.”

Her mouth thinned to a disapproving line. “I was unaware people were able to do that.”

“Are you suggesting that she had a hand in his death, Chiyoh?”

“Did she?”

“What would you do with the answer?” It was curious to him that she might be willing to use blackmail against someone in a relatively high position of power.

“I would like to see a different Vice President in this administration. I believe she poses a danger to you. As a fanatic.”

Hannibal had not been expecting this from her, finally able to see the situation in full. “Are you trying to save me?”

“From yourself? Yes. I’d like to.”

“I do not—“ he started to say.

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I would simply like to see you shaped into something more. Something our Lady would have approved of.”

Ah, of course. “Our Lady never understood me.”

Chiyoh raised an eyebrow. “She did. More than you realise.”

“She saw parts of me.”

The edge in her voice softened. “She thought there was something worth saving. Why will you not offer yourself that chance to become something better? There is still time to change.”

“She told you that I was dangerous?” He waited until Chiyoh nodded. “I think you misinterpret what she wants. She did not want to change me, she wanted to _stop_ me.”

He stood from the chaise lounge. “And I cannot deny myself my full potential.”

*****

Bev’s breath was shaking and her heart clenched at the sound of the resident who lived in the apartment above hers walking on the squeaking floor. She managed to sit up, drawing her knees close to her chest as she considered what she was about to do. Grabbing her phone off the nightstand, she selected Saul’s phone number and hit the call button. She knew where their relationship was headed so she didn’t feel guilty calling him at this ungodly hour.

“Agent Katz, to what do I owe the honour?” His voice sounded tired, but alert.

She scratched at her neck, yawning. “I keep dreaming about Graham calling my phone. And I try to answer it and I can’t pick up. And I know it’s him—trying to get help—but the phone buttons just won’t let me answer.”

He didn’t skip a beat. “Do you need to speak to one of the Treasury shrinks?”

“I think so. I thought these would go away—“

“How many of these dreams have you had?” he asked, an edge of concern now entering the conversation.

“Like, three to four times a week.”

“Okay, I’ll make sure you’re seen by someone by Friday.”

“I can call for an appointment. I just wanted to hear your voice,” she admitted.

There was quiet on his end of the line for a moment, then, “Could I bring breakfast by your place this morning?”

“Definitely. I’ll text you my address in a second.”

He was quiet for a moment, then told her, “Get some rest, Bev. Graham is home and you saved his life.”

They ended the call and she opened up her messages to find the other agent’s contact information; they’d last texted one another about meeting for drinks at a bar near the White House, which was becoming a weekly ritual for the two of them. She sent off her apartment address and set the phone back down on her nightstand.

Bev turned her attention to the bedroom windows overlooking the street; the sheer curtains let in muted light from street lamps and storefronts, something she’d always found comforting. She’d always hated completely dark rooms. And now as she thought about her terrible dreams, she thought about how Graham had been locked up in a pitch black space for over two months. She wiped at her eyes and rest her head on her arms which she’d folded on her bent knees. During training for the Uniformed Division, she’d heard about agents who’d experienced a toll to their emotional and mental health after a stressful case on the job. She’d always assumed that with her optimism, she’d be able to weather anything thrown her way, but it seemed that the building guilt over not answering her phone right away had affected her more deeply than she’d expected.

*****

Nights when Hannibal was out of town or working late on the Ukrainian uprising meant Abigail came to share the bed with him. Often she’d spend the time he took to fall asleep on her phone, face illuminated in the dark by the screen as she read whatever it was she’d set her attention to. It made her look like a ghost and he would have to close his eyes to save himself from staring at the white scar across her bare throat.

Things came to a head one night between the two Lecters when Will was struggling to stay awake; Hannibal and Abigail had both decided that they would be spending the evening with him, and neither were willing to back down from the perceived entitlement. Hannibal had already dressed in his night clothes and was putting lotion on his hands as Abigail stood in the doorway with a pillow under one arm and one of her comforters as she stared down her father.

“I’ve already planned to sleep in his room tonight,” she said, her expression devoid of emotion.

Hannibal had originally planned to be out of town for the evening but changed his plans at the last minute, which meant he could stay with Will. Hannibal continued to prepare for bed, eyes locked on Abigail’s.

“I changed my schedule so that you would not be inconvenienced by sleeping in here. You may return to your room.”

“I’ve already brought the dogs,” she added in a voice so innocent that Will almost believed she was.

Will hummed in approval before he could stop himself and while Hannibal didn’t frown, his eyes shifted between Abigail to Will on the bed.

“If my company is not preferred tonight—“

“Stay.” Will forced the word out, reaching a hand for the other man. “Don’t fight about this.”

Abigail didn’t wait for further permission and came to sit on the edge of the bed, placing her pillow beside Will’s and wrapping herself up in the comforter, pointedly ignoring her father. Will still held Hannibal’s fingers; he loved them both and being asked to pick between them was impossible. Winston’s heavy footsteps and the puppy’s clawed feet skittering on the wood floor registered distantly as he moved to the centre of the bed.

Hannibal stopped glaring at the back of Abigail’s head to look back at Will. Wordlessly, he joined Will on the bed as well, close enough that they were belly to belly; Will shifted his pillow so that it made less contact with his face and allowed Hannibal to pull the blankets up tightly around his neck. Will raised an eyebrow when Hannibal patted the side of the bed to give Winston permission to jump up. The puppy gave a small whine, unable to jump up onto the bed and ran around to the side Abigail was on, begging pitifully to be lifted up to join them. Abigail turned off the lamp on Will’s nightstand and leaned out of the bed to retrieve the puppy who wiggled and squirmed across the bed to lick at any exposed hands, then went to sleep by the older dog.

Will was exhausted and dealing with the two Lecters was ridiculous. Unwilling to entertain anymore games, he murmured a goodnight to Abigail and then one to Hannibal, closing his eyes as they whispered their salutations to him for the night.

The bed felt incredibly cramped to have not just two other adults sharing the space with him, but two dogs that sprawled out at the foot of the bed. It was a ridiculous arrangement, but Abigail smelt of her shampoo and Hannibal of his mouthwash, and Will had wanted to be surrounded by family for so long that he couldn’t find any emotions within him that were sour at anything. Tonight _he’d_ won.

When he awoke in the predawn hours, he found Abigail cuddled around him and snoring slightly while Hannibal was awake and facing him, his fingertips resting on Will’s lips. Will exhaled softly and kissed Hannibal’s fingers; Hannibal didn’t smile, but Will could see him relax. Of course the strong and powerful Lecters’ only weakness was rejection, and now that Hannibal understood clearly Will loved him

“I love you,” he whispered.

Hannibal leaned in and kissed Will softly, his eyes closed. Despite the empathy that overwhelmed him at nearly every interaction he had with the world around him, he wasn’t comfortable with too much intimacy in front of Abigail, even if she was asleep, and having her in the same bed with them made it even weirder. He withheld just enough affection from Hannibal to make it clear he didn’t want to participate further, which left Hannibal to return to kissing his fingers and palms.

Will felt slightly like he was being held in lieu of a stuffed animal, Abigail’s grip on him tight. Whether it was hours or minutes later, she woke slowly: stretching and shifting behind him, releasing him from her hold. Her fingers delicately traced the shell of his ear, spiraling inwards to rest on the tragus before she sat up.

“Going to go out for a run,” she murmured in his ear. “Go back to sleep.”

The puppy and Winston seemed eager to join her and followed her off the bed and out of the room. Now that they were alone, Hannibal’s mouth began to curl in a small smile and Will switched sides so that he was no longer on his damaged shoulder, letting out a quick huff of air at the startling feeling of how Hannibal had spared no time to wrap himself around Will. Closing his eyes once more, he allowed himself to be soothed back to sleep by the soft press of lips to the nape of his neck.

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Thank you everyone and your lovely comments. They’ve been very motivating. I read and cherish each one, I promise :) 
> 
> +I’ve had a few people point out (since the first book!) that sometimes paragraphs or sentences seem to end abruptly in the fic, as though they’re cut off. I’m not sure what is causing this, but I do plan on going back through this fic to correct any problems, and once this fic is done, I’ll go back to the other two. Thank you for letting me know this is *still* happening!
> 
> +And if there are strange words anywhere in the story, my new laptop has been giving me very unhelpful autocorrect suggestions without my permission. 
> 
> +To celebrate election season, I’ve uploaded the National Anthem ringtone I made way back when I wrote the first story. Featuring the classic lines of “Nothing here is vegetarian” and “Bon appetite”, as well as Will’s pendulum. Find it here: https://www.dropbox.com/s/mi5ha7rkwlnf4rr/National%20Anthem%2C%20pendulum.m4r?dl=0
> 
> +NATO’s Article 5: “Collective defense means that an attack against one Ally is considered an attack against all Allies. The principle of collective defense is enshrined in Article 5 of the Washington Treaty. NATO invoked Article 5 for the first time in its history after the 9/11 terrorist attacks against the United States.” —the NATO website  
> +”hawkish” denotes a politician being a “war hawk”, which is a politician who is more inclined to use military means as a first resort for solving a conflict with another nation  
> +Paul Krendler is who Kade Purnell was modeled after on the show.
> 
> +Fois gras is the fatty liver of a goose, often procured by force feeding a goose. The ethics of the practice are often up for debate in animal rights debates. It’s considered an inhuman delicacy.
> 
> +”Sixty days ago she such a lovely child. And now here she is—with a gun in her hand.”  
> The song Will is thinking of is Patti Smith’s “Hey Joe”. I’m confident the line was originally said by a man to a news reporter, but I can’t find a source for it, so don’t quote me on that. 
> 
> +Disclaimer: Reba’s line of questioning probably leads Will more than a psychiatrist ethically should. Sorry if anything was very obviously a unprofessional on her part. 
> 
> +’to drop the ball’ means to mishandle things, a mistake
> 
> +The daily affirmation I used is from https://www.myptsd.com/c/threads/affirmations-for-positive-change.22639/
> 
> +”The Hero’s Journey” by Joseph Campbell is a pretty key piece of literature in the self-improvement field.  
> +If you want to read Nate Silver’s blog, head on over to FiveThreeEight.com . If you’re into politics, baseball, or statistics, you’ll really enjoy it!
> 
> +I don’t know shit about torture via light therapy, so sorry if it’s not accurate
> 
> +Will is referencing the act of ’sati’ which was a practice in India where a widow would immolate herself on the funeral pyre of her husband
> 
> +I have it down in my notes that there was a journalist beheaded in either Syria or Afghanistan in March 2014, but for some reason I don’t have specifics. I’m not sure if I’ve accidentally written down the wrong date for the incident, because it sounds so much like the beheadings of journalists and aid workers that started in July. 
> 
> +ACU is Army Combat Uniform
> 
> +I don’t know enough about hypnotizing to know if what I said was accurate and most information online was very contradictory. I’m sure Hannibal knows what he’s doing. *shrugs*
> 
> +Ugh, the original outline for the sex scene was very rough and violent, and somehow when I was filling it in, it got very romantic. Idk


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from April 1-5, 2014.
> 
> Warning for: graphic descriptions of torture, decomposition, death, mutilation, body horror, child victims.

April beckoned in an unexpectedly warm spring and Will had found the courage to wander up to the rooftop so that he might indulge in fresh air; Brauer accompanied him and kept a supporting hand on Will as they moved up the stairs together. His entourage of agents followed slowly and there was a certain attempt at space that they gave him, leading Will to believe that Brauer had instructed them to keep themselves at at a distance.

When he reached the rooftop, he couldn’t help but pause and soak in his return to the outside world. It was beautiful. The sound of traffic from Pennsylvania Avenue below drifted up, sounding dreamlike and distant. There were missile turrets tucked down below the visible roofline, ready to be raised and launched should there be any issues. But those were out of Will’s line a sight, allowing him to pretend that he was simply there to relax and not due to the lack of security anywhere else. A chair had been set out by the large windows of the Sun Room for Will to sit in and he closed his eyes,allowing the sunlight to warm his skin, the heat particularly distinct on his scar tissue.

In the Yellow Room at that very moment, Hannibal was in the process of unveiling the official portraits of both McCain and Chilton. Cindy McCain was there in lieu of her late husband and former President Chilton stood at her side, giving her consoling pats on the arm. Will had previewed the oil paintings the night before on Hannibal’s tablet, feeling indifferent to the art entirely, but willing to listen to Hannibal compliment the artist’s rendering of the two politicians. There would be an oil painting made of Hannibal during his second term and then revealed during the next president’s term, which gave Will pause to wonder if the tradition would be forgone if the forty-sixth president was discovered to be a serial killer. Though, there had been presidents who’d committed war crimes and they’d been given the honour of having their portrait hung in the White House forever, so maybe it didn’t matter at all. Time seemed to be on the side of politicians—those who’d been subject to criticism were remembered in a more forgiving manner. If Will was honest, he could picture Hannibal’s supporters would fondly think of the times that he’d introduced new legislation that benefited them, and merely sigh at mention of the body count. Seemed almost pointless to reason with zealots.

“What if the President was a killer?” he posed to Brauer, opening his eyes to look up at the agent posted by the greenhouse door.

“What about it?”

“Does the Secret Service have to cover up for those types of crimes? At the expense of another’s life or justice being sought?”

Brauer raised an eyebrow. “You been watching ‘Murder at 1600’?”

Will couldn’t help but frown. “Not since it came out.”

“Depends on the situation,” the agent admitted, leaning casually against the roof’s half wall; his blazer pulled back just enough to reveal his holster and firearm. “And many of the agents here like Lecter, so there’s a good chance they’d start a coverup immediately.”

Brauer was always painfully honest with Will, something that came as both a relief and a frustration. He wondered how Brauer would react to the thought of protecting a serial killer.

“Diplomatic immunity in a way?” Will asked, pushing the matter further, more than he knew he should.

Brauer straightened enough in his posture to suggest he was now taking the matter seriously. “Why? Has he—“

“I’m just asking,” Will asked quickly, looking away.

“You’re weird.” But his agent said it without malice, just an observation.

“Everyone wants to know answers like that—they just can’t ask them.” Will shrugged his good shoulder slightly. “Why are you loyal to Du Maurier? She’s a horrible human being.”

At this, Brauer grinned. “You two just don’t get along because Lecter’s more interested in you than her.”

“Is that what she’s told you?”

“Du Maurier was his best friend long before you showed up and now the dynamic has changed for the two of them. They’re called ‘the twins’, you know. By their family. Where one was, you could always find the other.”

Will nearly rolled his eyes, not invested with the Kennedy narrative of family and unity. “Charming.”

Brauer lowered his voice. “If the president needs a situation taken care of, there are ways.”

Will couldn’t help the rising sour taste in his mouth at the thought of what Brauer was suggesting. “He can really have someone assassinated?”

“We’re not going to take Dolarhyde in alive. If that’s what he’s worried about. Though I’m sure if he needs someone el—“

“This is probably something he should be discussing not me,” Will interrupted, his voice tight.

Ah, now Brauer thought that Will was the soft, passive type whose heart bled for every life lost. That justice would always be found in a jail cell, never in death. Maybe he had thought that once. But now he couldn’t be so sure.

“You’ve been told that you’re not going to get prosecuted for killing those militia guys back there, right?” Brauer asked, an element of concern in his tone.

“I have been informed.”

“Killing someone is a horrible feeling, even when you have to do it. I hope your therapist is telling you that. That the guilt is natural.”

If Will was honest about the situation, he felt more fear of a long, dragged out trial where he’d be forced to talk about his escape, about the fear and desperation he’d felt, at his lack of remorse towards the people who’d kept him in captivity. With one known living member of REDDRAGON, he would be eventually required to testify, where everyone would stare at him, where everyone would pity him and judge him. That was what he dreaded. The consequences.

“Is she?”

Will looked up at Brauer. “Is who?”

“Your therapist? Is she telling you that the guilt is normal?”

He nodded slightly, feeling the sensitivity in his upper jaw where he was missing a tooth. “She is.”

“Okay.” His agent seemed satisfied. “Not that I thought Lecter hired a quack, but sometimes you’ll find a psychiatrist who’s not actually useful.”

“You’ve killed at least twice, haven’t you,” Will said, observing more than asking.

“More than I’m proud of.” Brauer’s eyes were hard with an anger directed towards himself and not Will. “I’m going to get something to drink in the kitchen. You want something?”

Will shook his head as Brauer motioned for another agent to come stand by Will. Will closed his eyes again and retreated into his own thoughts.

*****

“Coroner wants to get them out of here pretty soon, so do what you need to,” the police chief told Saul as they walked from the opposite side of the street to the crime scene.

The town was stagnant at ten thousand people, many plateaued in their lives and careers, the kind of place where kids didn’t want to go to college and simply went to work at the family business, and married their high school sweetheart. It was not the kind of place that had an entire family murdered brutally overnight. As they walked under the yellow crime scene tape, he watched as neighbors stood on their lawns, muttering to one another over their fences.

“FBI said they have what they need,” the police chief told him.

“Right,” Saul agreed, immensely relieved that everyone seemed to be staying out of one another’s way—he didn’t need any extra drama over whose territory this was.

“Neighbor saw this this morning when he was out walking his dog. He got freaked out after reading about Dolarhyde in the paper and called 911.”

Written in tacky, oxidising blood across the front of the house’s white vinyl panelling were the words:

BEHOLD THE GREAT RED DRAGON

“The responding officer was concerned and attempted to get an answer from inside the residence, but no one responded, so he called for backup and they entered the house, where they found them.”

There were two FBI evidence processing vans parked in the driveway behind what Saul assumed to be the family’s vehicles, an old Dodge Caravan and Ford Taurus, both with fading paint. There was a group of Bureau technicians huddled together by the vans, talking amongst themselves as they watched the local PD marching out of the house with boxes and bags of evidence. 

“Hey, Saul.” A man with an especially weathered face and close cropped hair tipped his coffee cup at him in recognition.

Saul nodded towards him, secretly relieved to see someone he knew to be competent on scene. “Pat, good to see you.”

As he turned his attention back towards the police chief, he noted that the other man had been regarding them with an expression that hinted at anxiousness, as though he was now worried that he didn’t belong to the club of feds that they did and was worried he’d be screwed over petty politics.

“Pat’ll be good to work with. He’s not here to compete with your detectives,” Saul said to reassure the other man, not wanting the start of dramatics, and sure enough, the police chief relaxed slightly.

There had been a tentative report written on the victims that Saul had read on the flight down to Florida: Mr and Mrs Jacobi had recently relocated from Birmingham, Alabama, leaving behind their inlaws to accept a job for Mr Jacobi at a paint warehouse in town. Members of the Sons of the Constitution, one of the national militia groups with divisions in both Florida and Alabama respectively. On a very low priority watchlist, though everyone with the militia group was now being examined closer since this morning.

The front door of the house was open with a sheet of white plastic taped over the top so that it gave the interior of the house privacy. Saul pushed the plastic aside and walked in. The house wasn’t overly impressive, lower middle-class maybe, too much wood paneling. Nobody in this town was a millionaire, so Saul guessed that the Jacobis were likely the average citizen in the area.

He was led to the family den, which was poorly lit with a single ceiling lamp, as the room had no windows, only an entrance to the kitchen and an entrance to the main foyer.

“One of the detectives threw up, sorry,” the chief said, his tone unapologetic. “You know how these kids are.”

Saul nodded and pulled out a handkerchief to hold over his mouth and nose. The smell of vomit was very sharp and beginning to mingle with the now decomposing bodies, two of which had voided bowels and all of which had emptied their bladders. Saul had worked a few homicides in his career, though all of them had been prior to working for the Secret Service. In the FBI, he’d worked a few stints as a greenhorn on crime scene collection, which meant he’d developed a strong constitution against the violence and death the human condition was subject to creating. Being former FBI meant he had no illusion as to who should be gathering evidence and he was glad it wasn’t him.

There were four American flags hanging from the ceiling, held with bent nails that went through the cloth and rather than the rivets. Each flag hung in front of the head and shoulders of the four bodies that were arranged in chairs likely from the dining room, hiding the faces of each victim from view. Saul dreaded what he would see when he looked behind the flags, so he stalled. The bodies had been zip tied by their wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of each chair they sat in, save for the mother, whose arms hung limply in her lap where she held the swaddled body of the three month old son. The child looked as though it belonged in a manger, wrapped in a pale blue flannel receiving blanket.

Saul gave a few contemplative hums as he glanced around the room, cautious of anything that might be a boobytrap. He’d been around far too many crime scenes in his life to be naive and considering this was likely the work of Dolarhyde, there was always a chance he’d try to take out more people who’d responded to help. Dealing with domestic terrorist groups meant getting into the head of paranoid people, ones who liked knowing they’d taken lives in the name of their cause. He could picture everything in the room being potentially dangerous.

“Have the bodies been handled yet?” he asked, still not taking a step forward.

“FBI said they’re clear. Checked ‘em for bombs and chemicals.”

Saul nodded and proceeded to go the centermost body; he lift the corner of the flag hiding Mr Jacobi with the eraser end of the pencil he’d pulled out of his jacket, ducking his head to see underneath. The man’s body was headless, a bloody stump that suggested to Saul that the man might have been beheaded alive. Maybe two or three hacks of a machete, which would require skill, prior knowledge, and some strength, all of which Dolarhyde possessed.

He glanced up and down the row of bodies behind the flags, noting that every family member had been beheaded as well. He glanced back to Mrs Jacobi, wondering who in the family had been killed first. Had they all watched one another die? There was no blood on the carpet, but blood on the back of the chairs where it had run down. A fly that had gotten into the house had landed on the edge of the blanket that covered the face of the baby. He felt his stomach clench and again with the eraser end of his pencil, he carefully pulled back the hem of the blanket that was covering the baby’s head. The infant had suffered a single blow to the face, blood splattered across the discoloured skin, no structure left for identification; Saul had a disconnected and clinical part of his mind questioning if the child had asphyxiated on its own blood or if it had been killed on impact. He swallowed down his own desire to vomit and forced himself to look away.

Letting the blanket fall back in place, he stepped backwards from the bodies, silently reminding himself to schedule an appointment with one of the department shrinks so that he wouldn’t have nightmares from this the way Beverly was having about Will Graham. He felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly at the thought of Beverly. Maybe he could ask her out to dinner soon, spend some time with her so that he wasn’t alone with his thoughts.

The police chief was studying him, probably trying to see how a Secret Service agent investigated, get a few new tricks up his sleeve.

“Where are their heads?” Saul asked, when he was able to find his voice.

The man gave him a grim look. “Don’t know. Still looking for them.”

There was a dog bed in the corner of the room and a pink faux leather collar placed in the lap of the daughter. “Where’s the dog?”

The police chief glanced at the daughter’s corpse and then back at the doorway to the kitchen. “Uh, neighbor said that the dog died a few days ago and that the kids buried it out back.”

“How did it die?”

“Dunno.”

“Have you contacted the family’s vet?”

The police chief shook his head. “Didn’t have one.”

“Dig up the dog, then. We don’t know if it was killed as retaliation.” Saul imagined that the dead dog might have been a catalyst for what had happened to the family. “Bag it and we’ll have it taken to Quantico.”

The police chief straightened his posture. “Agent Perlman, should I be concerned about Dolarhyde coming here after my boys?”

“Only if they encounter him. He’s trying to stay off the radar.”

“By doing this?” the man nodded his head to the bodies.

“I think this is a warning. To other people in his group.”

Now the police chief looked startled. “You think they were part of REDDRAGON?”

“Very likely. Dolarhyde had a network of sympathetic supporters. People who weren’t on the inner circle, but stationed in the outside with the rest of us.”

“So there are others?”

“Without a doubt. Dolarhyde felt betrayed by them—they must have said something or done something out of line. Maybe they were getting cold feet. This guy is a freak—a mother wouldn’t want him around her newborn. She wouldn’t want to jeaprodise her family’s safety for her ideals.”

“This just doesn’t happen here. This doesn’t happen in our town.”

“It’s a whole new ballgame,” Saul said drily as he took his leave from the police chief to study the rest of the house.

In the kitchen, squares of blood had been painted onto the linoleum floor in a grid; a tech knelt next to them, taking small swabs of each square, while another one measured and catalogued each one. The mirrors in the house had been destroyed, and were being photoed and catalogued. There was blood in the children’s rooms and Saul wondered if the children had been killed in their sleep, as the blood was on the pillows of their beds. There was blood in the crib in the master bedroom, but only some in the bed, dripped across the carpet, indicating a struggle but not death. There was an empty guest room, boasting only a bed and nightstand. The room smelt of bleach and he noted a ShopVac in the corner, which a tech was dusting for fingerprints, a large evidence box beside it.

Saul had his phone with him and selected FaceTime with the President, wanting to give the other man a tour of crime scene. The other man answered and he held the phone up so that Lecter’s face was at his own height.

“President Lecter, may I have a moment of your time?” he asked as he walked back down the hallway towards the kitchen.

“If you will excuse me,” the President said to someone off screen and after a few seconds, turned his attention back to Saul. “Please speak.”

“I wanted to let you know I think this is Dolarhyde. We have confirmed the victims are members of a local militia. And the level of violence is very reminiscent of what we know of him.”Saul moved the phone to show the techs at work in the bedrooms and single bathroom. “Won’t know for sure until we dust the place for prints, and run fiber and DNA samples.”

“This will make it easier to track him, then.”

“Yes, I think so. He’s angry and angry people get sloppy.”

As Saul entered the kitchen, he was struck by the oddity of the blood on the floor and thought it would be vital for the President to see it as it was now, not via the photos being taken. “There’s also something strange here—it’s a grid of squares painted in the victim’s blood. On the floor, kitchen floor by the back door that looks out over the back yard.”

“There was a full moon last night. Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Agent Perlman?”

“You think he painted over the moon’s reflection on the floor.”

The techs both looked up at him in interest as the President agreed. “Yes.”

“Was a full moon the night Graham got out,” Saul reminded aloud as he thought of the distinct lighting from the night Graham had been rescued.

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you think he left a message?”

“That is always a possibility.”

Saul nodded. While he wasn’t going to consult with the President’s opinion on every matter, it was interesting to hear the other man’s perspective. Perhaps in another life he would have made a good detective.

Talking to Graham would help—enough time had passed that he could ask the President’s boyfriend about anything he might have experienced without ‘he’s recovering’ being a valid excuse to keep him away. He suspected that the President’s overprotective desire to keep Graham from anyone who might ask him difficult questions was still in affect, but he knew he had to pursue the one man who’d interacted with the terrorists the most and survived.

“I’d like to talk to Graham. See if anything jogs his memory.”

“I think that would be a good idea, Agent Perlman.” Lecter glanced away from the screen for a second. “If you will excuse me, I have a meeting.”

“I’ll talk with you when I get back to Washington.”

Pat walked into the kitchen as Saul put his phone away. “Got everything you need, Saul?”

“I think so. Have your techs send me everything tonight.”

He and Pat walked back through the house towards the front door as they oversaw what was happening in the house. 

“Look, we don’t want to get in the way of your investigation, but we want to take the lead,” Pat told him as they watched someone bagging the broken mirror fragments from the hallway.

“I know, but I answer directly to the President. I’m not looking for credit—I just have to make sure everything’s done to his satisfaction.”

“Is Graham really living at the White House?” Pat asked as they walked back into the kitchen yet again, looking out the back door to watch the techs combing through the dry lawn and budding shrubs that made up the backyard.

“Classified,” Saul said with just the slightest nod of his head.

“Saw his face on the report,” Pat commented, raising an eyebrow.

Saul thought of the brutal mess in the report’s photos. “It’s healing.”

“I’ll have everything fully processed by the end of the week. I can accompany you to the White House to debrief the President then.”

Saul usually hated tagalongs, but he knew that Pat would be thrilled to get into the White House and if he thought he was getting special treatment, he’d give Saul more to work with. “Sure.”

As they rounded the corner, they came across a few techs squabbling over their work.

“Aw damn, fucking DOJ breathing down my neck again—hey, back off! Let him do his job! We don’t need anymore agencies inside right now!” Pat marched over to the situation.

The woman wearing the DOJ’s letters glared at them both. “Look, I need to collect samples.”

“There’s plenty to go around. Wait your fucking turn.”

Saul left Pat to deal with the conflict, glad he was solo today.

The police chief was waiting outside, standing in the driveway with his hands in his pockets. “So can I—“

“Yeah, tell your boys that they can take the bodies.” Saul reached out to shake his hand once more. “Thank you for your work. You’ve done a fine job managing the scene. The White House is proud to work with professionals like yourself.” He then produced a business card, passing it over. “Let me know if I can ever do anything for you.”

The police chief smiled for the first time that day. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Perlman.”

“Likewise.”

*****

This was Officer Shore’s first homicide to work and he’d been assigned to crowd control. By now, the entire town was aware something had happened and keeping people back was critical so as not to ruin the crime scene. It was almost lunchtime and the interest had managed to die down for now, though he anticipated that it would swell once more when everyone got their lunch break at noon.

A pretty redhead was standing at the edge of the crime scene tape, standing on her toes, trying to watch as evidence was getting hauled out of the house. She was in a jogging outfit, fanny pack around her waist. He had the feeling he knew her from somewhere, but couldn’t place her name, though in all honestly, he couldn’t give names for the majority of people here in town, just that he recognised them from seeing them at the grocery store or Walmart. Her iPod was casually sticking out of the front zipper compartment, her headphones around her neck.

“What’s going on?” she asked as he approached. “I heard that the new family who moved into the neighborhood were murdered? Are we safe here?”

“Ma’am, there is nothing to worry about.”

“There are children in this neighborhood and hardworking families. I want answers,” she told him firmly. “Is it Dolarhyde? Is he here?”

“Ma’am, please.”

“I am a tax payer!” she insisted, sounded outraged.

“Ma’am, the FBI said there’s nothing to worry about. That Dolarhyde is long gone.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have given her that much information, but she relaxed somewhat, to his relief. “And who is he?”

He followed her line of sight to the black guy walking with the police chief on the front porch; he softened enough to smile, wanting her to feel reassured that their town would be safe. “That’s the Secret Service with the police chief. He arrived here an hour ago.”

“Oh, Secret Service?”

“That’s right. Everyone’s being called in to take care of this.”

Out of her fanny pack she pulled a small notepad and a bic pen. “What were the children’s names? I want to know what names to have written out when I order the flower arrangements for the memorial.”

Already there was a makeshift memorial at the streetlight across the street and people had been leaving candles and stuffed animals in a pile there.

“I can’t give you that information, ma’am.”

She made a face. “Can I at least have their ages? So that I know what’s appropriate for the arrangements?”

Shore hesitated for a moment, but then thought about how this was something his mother would want to do. That was one of the things he loved so much about his town—everyone wanted to be a community. They took care of one another.

“Okay, don’t tell anyone I told you,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in. “Two girls, Bethany, age nine, and Darla, three months old; one boy, Clyde, age eight.”

“Thank you so much, officer,” the redhead said with a smile as she finished writing the names down. “I really owe you one.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +’Murder at 1600’ is a book/movie about a Washington DC police officer investigating the President for the murder of a White House intern. The movie has Wesley Snipe so win-win.
> 
> +The show ‘The West Wing’ is about a fictional president, and during one of the seasons he uses his ‘one free kill’ where he can have someone assassinated. I honestly don’t know if that’s real, though I’m sure it is. So I decided to add it the canon of this AU. 
> 
> +”Shrink” is slang for psychiatrist
> 
> +ShopVac is an industrial/garage wet vacuum, meaning that it can vacuum up water or heavier messes. Used for deep cleaning. 
> 
> +I also want to give a big shoutout to the people who’ve been helping me map out various elements of this story, including one very considerate reader who did recon of the DC area. 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's stuck with the story. I know it's been a very long time since I last posted a chapter, so I hope that this one has been worth the wait. All comments and hearts have really meant a lot to me.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Not a full chapter, sorry)  
> Takes place in the beginning of April 2014

The Jacobis’ heads had been recovered in the same backyard plot that the family’s dog had been buried in, each dropped into a pillow case, dumped atop the newly decomposing remains of the dog. Will studied the pictures of the faded pillow cases, the way they’d been knotted, the blood leaking through the threadbare cloth, the soil clinging to the matted fur. Agent Perlman sat in the seat normally occupied by Dr McClane and he had spread out the case file across the walnut coffee table that separated the two of them. Hannibal and Perlman had wanted Will to look at the case file in hopes it might trigger some sort of memory or insight. Will thought it was a terrible idea, but they wouldn’t be wrong in utilising all the resources available to them, even at his own mental expense.

There was already an article up on the Tattle-Politics website that featured slightly blurry photos taken of the house and the evidence being pulled out in brown paper bags. There was even a photo of Perlman with the town’s police chief as they walked on the house’s porch, looking for extra evidence. Lounds’ clearly hadn’t wasted anytime getting there and Will wondered if they had the Vice President to thank for that.

“He took the time to wrap up the baby,” Will told Perlman as he stared at the horrible crime scene photo in his hand. “It was an important gesture to him, regret for how brutally he killed the child. He wanted him to look as though he was Christ in the manger. He made him special within the tableau.” Will could hear the whimpers of the other children, the labored breathing of Mrs Jacobi, the panting of Dolarhyde. In his mind, the baby was giving shrill screams. “I bet he cried. That’s why he was struck in the face rather than being smothered or shot. He cried and it made Dolarhyde upset.”

“Dolarhyde doesn’t like noise?” Perlman asked.

“None. It makes him anxious. As a child he was supposed to stay quiet and other children causing a commotion makes him recall about his own vulnerability. An adult being loud is just pathetic to him.”

“So he has compassion for children? To an extent?”

“I think if he saw his own vulnerability in a child…not a baby, but one around seven or eight, male, white. One who looks like him. He might hesitate.” Will could picture the Jacobis’ older son being beheaded and he closed his eyes. “But he wouldn’t spare him.”

“People who can harm children spook me.” Perlman’s eyes were fixated on the photos of the crime scene still.

Will was quiet for some time after that, shuffling the papers aimlessly as he wallowed in his thoughts of death and suffering. “There’s nothing here that tells me where he’s going next. Just that we need to figure out who’s in his radius that will help him out. Because they’re not safe either and if they know the Jacobis, then they’ll realise that pretty quick.”

“They’re new to the area, only lived there a year so far. The town is a shithole—claimed to the inlaws that Mr Jacobi got a job there. I can’t imagine anyone moving there to get a job.”

Will agreed. “You think that the people who employed him are members of the network.”

“I do. Already running them through a background check.”

“What was the job?”

“He worked in the warehouse, loading paint for contractors on a forklift.”

“And he was employed before he got to Florida.”

In Will’s mind, he could see a web beginning to form, the strands woven by not only Dolarhyde, but by the sleeper cells of radicalized and paranoid nationalists who had wanted to see REDDRAGON succeed. Of course the Jacobis hadn’t come to Florida on their own—they’d been placed there in wait for whatever job REDDRAGON had needed of them.

Perlman nodded once. “Worked at a lumberyard. He earned the same amount there as he did at the warehouse, so it’s suspicious that he’d be offered a job and then just up and leave for it. Wife had just had a baby. You don’t just uproot everything for a job on a forklift.”

“No. This is all wrong,” Will agreed. “Focus on the employer or whomever got him the job.”

“One of his coworkers wasn’t at work today, but we tracked him to the local hospital—bad case of food poisoning from one of the restaurants in town. Five other customers ate bad chicken parmesan. We’re still sifting through his house and truck, but it looks like a coincidence.”

Will’s eyes drifted back to the folder that remained on the table; on its tab was the day’s date and the corners of a news paper peeked out the sides. Perlman pushed the file towards Will with his slender fingers and Will found himself holding his breath as he opened the manila folder. The newspaper inside was folded neatly, the scent of its ink wafting up.

“ _REDDRAGON ALIVE_ ” it proclaimed boldly in bright red, Dolarhyde’s military photo printed in full colour and Will’s stomach tightened in instinct, phantom sensitivity causing the scar tissue of his face to tingle uncomfortably.

“The media’s not waiting for us to announce anything. They want to sell papers.”

Will’s voice was caught in his throat and the small of his back prickled. Dolarhyde’s mouth seemed to be smirking in the photo now.

_“Reach behind you, Will Graham, and feel the small knobs on the top of your pelvis. That is the precise spot the Dragon will snap your spine.”_

*****

Hannibal thought it was a shame that Will could not come along with him to the various events that he was required to attend. The other man was a luxury he allowed himself to indulge in far too readily and while he was aware that Will was slowly becoming a weakness for him, he felt it was still acceptable to down in the deep waters of romance and pleasure for as long as possible. In truth, he was ready to share their relationship to the world, but the timing was not right for Will or the country. Perhaps the timing would never be right.

Aboard the smaller of the Air Force One fleet, Hannibal had decided to pass the time back to the White House by drawing, a past time he’d had less of in the recent months. Miss Mapp had packed the papers and pencils he preferred and then set them out for him to use while she read a text book on beginner’s Spanish. He was pleased that she was seeking to better herself while working for him and was contemplating how to further mould her into her best self when Donald Sutcliffe came towards the back of the plane, stretching his legs and arms. He paused, glancing down at Hannibal’s progress.

“Are you drawing Graham?”

“I am.”

Hannibal had felt whimsical, and had sketched out a simple study of Will glaring at him in annoyance, wearing the tie he’d borrowed from Hannibal, hands adjusting the silk by his collar.

Donald’s brow furrowed. “Well, you should be careful—people might read into that.”

Hannibal didn’t dignify his Assistant Chief of Staff’s comments with any response, instead taking the time to finish shading the knot.

“This administration doesn’t have a problem with gay people, Dr Sutcliffe.” Miss Mapp gave Sutcliffe a challenging look, drawing her shoulders back in a subconscious attempt to intimidate.

Donald raised an eyebrow at her. “That may be so, but no one will vote for a gay president.”

The Assistant Chief of Staff left without anything further, returning the front of the plane.

“That was quite brave of you, Miss Mapp.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes, clearly proud of her decision to challenge one of the higher ranking members of his staff. He planned to encourage the small, bold side of her that had been overlooked by most.

“Thank you, sir. I know you would do it for anyone else.”

Hannibal smile in return, though it was from amusement rather than agreement. A champion of the people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Thank you to everyone who has stayed with this story. It’s becoming very cathartic to delve into.  
> +Shoutout to the Tr*mp administration for making my story look less ridiculous. And bigly.  
> +Fic isn't abandonned--I've just been experiencing terrible writer's block in this chapter.  
> +Comments always welcome!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues through April 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular contains transphobia against a character, transphobic comments and slurs, and the general topic of a trans character within a conservative environment.   
> There will also be talk of eating disorders. If you’re concerned about any triggers, PLEASE comment, and I’ll get you an edited chapter so that you can still follow the story!!!

There had been an extensive physical evaluation of Will that morning by three White House physicians; he’d been hooked up to a machine that had monitored his oxygen intake, his heart rate, and physical stamina while he ran on a treadmill that had been brought into the sitting room adjoining his bedroom. Though he’d been fairly out of shape due to his recovery and time in captivity, he’d done well enough on the exam that the doctors were pleased, recommending that Will increase his physical activity and calorie intake. It was a distressing diagnosis as now he was being pressured to eat more, when all he could think about was cannibalism.

In the evening, Hannibal came to his room just as Abigail was retelling her day with the dramatic demonstrations of the different self-defense moves she’d learned from the Secret Service.

Hannibal held his hand out. “I’ve removed everyone from the Residence, Will. Let us take a walk.”

“I’d like to stretch my legs,” Will admitted, his thighs still aching from earlier.

“May I come with you?” Abigail’s hope was naked on her face and sensing her emotions, the dogs at her feet stood, too, eager to participate in whatever was making her happy.

Hannibal nodded. “I’m sure Will would enjoy that.”

Will found himself flanked by both Lecters as he exited the room for the first time in the months he’d been recovering at the White House; despite all of the wishes he’d had previously to leave the small space, irrational anxiety overtook him as he considered that by leaving, he was now becoming vulnerable to the realities that existed outside of the bedroom. But the world didn’t come crashing down as he made his first few steps out into the center hall and there was nothing left but an eerie silence.

“Is it too bright out here?” Abigail asked as Winston and Applesauce danced happily around their feet.

“No.” It was, but he didn’t want either of them to make a big deal of it.

“Let us walk to the kitchen. Perhaps afterwards we can venture downstairs,” Hannibal suggested.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Not tonight.”

“Very well.”

Abigail had slipped her hand into his, perhaps to give him emotional support or perhaps to ensure she remained at the pace he’d elected to walk at. The hallway wasn’t very long and while Will could feel his energy flagging, he had no intention of sitting down or pausing to catch his breath. Hannibal’s own pace was leisurely, as though they took slow strolls through the White House regularly and Will was grateful at the other man’s consideration to his own current physical limitations.

The walk to the kitchen didn’t take as long as he’d expected and as he stood in the centre of the familiar room, Hannibal’s hand came to rest on the small of his back. “Would you like to have dessert, Will? We could make something soft for you to eat.”

“I don’t think I’ll be eating.” He then decided to add a considerate, “Thank you.”

There was a second fridge in the kitchen that Will was certain hadn’t been there before and he glanced at the other man curiously.

“It’s for you,” Abigail explained.

Ah, so this was to comfort him.

“I believe they call that a kosher kitchen. Dairy to the left, human remains to the right,” Will said drily.

Hannibal gave him a very blank look as though he found the joke to be tasteless.

No pun intended.

Abigail grimaced and avoided meeting his eyes, pouring cold water from a pitcher into a glass. Will stared at the glass, ashamed he had soured the moment of spending time with the two of them. His mind was at war with itself: how easily it was to feel disgusted with the two of them, to hate their actions…but to love them in spite of it. The only two people who had ever loved him. The normal instincts in him told him to run. The darker, needful side of him craved their affection in a way he could not deny.

Winston nuzzled at the palm of his hand, while Applesauce danced around excitedly, stepping on his feet in hopes of getting attention. He smiled and knelt down, petting the eager puppy while Winston sniffed at the medication on his still healing scars.

“If I find anything to eat, I’ll put it in there,” he finally muttered, hoping the words would soothe the two other creatures in the room.

*****

Hormone fluctuations still drove Abigail up a wall, because she wanted strict control of them, to make them submit so that she no longer had to yield to their demands. She’d felt that proverbial itch deep within her dreams that morning and woke already considering how to take care of her dilemma. Stumbling into the bathroom, she peeled off her nightgown and underwear as she turned on the shower, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. The detachable shower head in her private bathroom had been worth the two hundred dollars it cost, brought from home as she’d been paranoid of Secret Service running across the vibrator Marissa had given her as a gag gift on her sixteenth birthday. Settling for the shower head was a decent substitute that she found herself turning to far too often.

The water hot enough for her enjoy in the chill of the bathroom and she brought the shower head down close to her spread legs, regulating her breathing as she settled her busy thoughts from her schedule to something more primal.

Drowning someone? Sutcliffe? No. Marissa? No. Georgia or Beth Lebeau? No, boring. The woman she’d seen at the opera, the one who’d reminded her of Marissa, a stranger? Abigail imagined standing in a pool of water, pushing the other woman beneath the surface of the water, watching the air bubbles rise and distort the water’s surface. She moaned against her arm, trying to muffle the sound out of habit and spread her legs a little wider, leaning forward as she tried to find that perfect angle that always satisfied the hot throb of her clitoris. The water jetted in a pulsing pattern and she leaned her upper body forward to rest against the warming tile. Maybe instead of just holding the woman down, she’d have struck her over the head with a rock, so that she didn’t have to deal with someone struggling. And the water would cloud with red blood—

Moaning against the tile, she closed her eyes and arched her back as her legs trembled. She thought she would have lasted longer, but was definitely eager to spend up the process and with her free hand, turned up the water’s pressure. The woman at the opera had been so beautiful. Abigail wanted to preserve her in lucite, the same way others preserved insects to make paperweights. Her hand clawed at the tiles and as her fingers dragged down the slick surface, she found the ceramic wall mounted soap dish and the still new bar of milled soap; her fingers closed around it, the same size as a stone and she imagined driving the object into the back of someone’s skull. Cheek pressed uncomfortably against the wall, she started to will herself closer to orgasm, begging her body for the release she needed. Picturing the unnamed woman under the water, picturing her drowning, picturing her eyes staring up at Abigail, picturing her staring at Abigail from across the balconies of the opera house—

Abigail’s fingers delved back down to stroke at the swollen, hot lips of her labia and she panted against the tile, persisting with the position despite it being uncomfortable. Water from overhead shower head ran into her open mouth, tasting chlorinated and mineralized from the outdated plumbing system of the White House; in her fantasy, the water would be clean and fresh, as pure as the sensation of tasting it in the other woman’s mouth after she’d pull her out of the unclouded pool. Abigail allowed a small exhale of noise, nothing that would reach anyone’s ears but her own and reveled in the building intensity of the shower head, of her hand, of the off-white tiling that was still cold against her shoulder and chest, of how beautiful someone would look succumbing to death under water—

 _Perfectperfectperfectperfect_ —

She rode out the last of the orgasm, wanting to drag it out for hours, wanting it to be finished. Smiling and satisfied, she soaped herself off quickly, then left the shower. Her mood considerably better, she dried and straightened her hair as she recited a speech that was expected of her at the end of the month, then brushed her teeth as she checked her student email for new assignments, then dressed as she reviewed the revised agenda Georgia had updated for her while she was still in the shower.

Sutcliffe was at the dining room table and he greeted her with the familiarity that one might extend to the child of a friend, still unaware that her father knew about their trysts; he rarely had breakfast with them, often too busy or not at the right time to accommodate his schedule. He was her least favourite dining companion, as he was fairly patronising in any conversation that he presented at the dinner table—another reminder that he thought of her as a child and not an equal like her father. But Uncle Abel was at the table, too, and she gave him a warm smile as he greeted her; he’d taken to her father’s habit of standing when she entered the room and the reverence at her presence made her feel recognised for her power and beauty.

At the moment, Will was going through his morning routine with his nurse and she’d join him later for lunch while her father was in Florida. She wished he was sitting here beside her father, who touched her hand gently before she had the chance to start her breakfast; the small gesture of their love and bond with one another had her heart bursting from the affection he so rarely expressed through physical gestures. 

Sutcliffe looked disgusted to be sitting across from Abel and continued to shoot the other man contemptuous looks, oblivious to her own hard stare at his lack of decorum. Breakfast was a light affair of crepes and fruits, and as she took the first bite from her plate, she could see Georgia enter the room from one of the side doors, carrying a envelope.

“A message for you, Abigail.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took it, trying not to exhibit any annoyance for being bothered so early in the morning for a task that could be saved for office hours.

“Who is it from?” Abel asked as he watched her open the envelope.

“It’s from Brian.”

Abel raised an eyebrow as he pierced the egg yolk on his plate with the tines of his fork. “Brian?”

Her father clarified. “The agent who shot Will.”

Abel clearly bristled at this information. “Should he be contacting you? The First Family?”

“It was an accident,” Abigail insisted.

Abel looked unsure with the situation, then with himself, and then his face became devoid of emotions. “Well. forgiveness is a very healthy mindset to take. I had to learn about forgiving what others had done to me, while I was away.”

Sutcliffe’s nose wrinkled slightly, hinting at a sneer. “Did you?”

As Abel began to enthusiastically explain the Maryland correctional department’s methods for psychological reconditioning, Abigail tuned out their conversation in favour of reading the card. It was for Easter, with a pastel origami rabbit tastefully attached to the front and slivers of green paper meant to indicate grass; she had already sent one to him that had easter eggs painted with watercolours on the front.

_Abigail,_

_How are you? I’ve missed seeing you—stuck in this office. Not so bad tho, I get to work on very important projects. Thank you for the card you sent—I’ll have it framed. How many people can say that they have a drawing from the First Lady?_

_I hope you have a wonderful Easter filled with candy and all the love in the world._

_Your friend always,_

_Brian_

She closed the card, setting it beside her plate should her father be compelled to read it later.

“Uncle Abel?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll compose a reply this morning and I’ll need someone to pick a suitable card for me. Could you do that?”

“I could.”

It was easy to see that he wasn’t pleased with being assigned such a menial task, but he wouldn’t disagree out of a sense of loyalty towards her and her father, something she was happy to use to her advantage. Perhaps it was under-utilising his strengths, but for now she wanted him to gain his footing within the White House.

His mood did improve considerably as they walked together to the East Wing, discussing the way the Easter Egg Roll on the White House lawn would unfold and that perhaps he could read books to the attending children with her.

The first two hours of work were nondescript as she read over a few financial plans her father planned to present to the coal industries as alternatives to the dying fuel companies; she would be giving an interview to Mother Jones later in the month about where her family’s administration stood in terms of renewable resources and hoped to be the mouthpiece that would prime the country of her father’s expectations. Lumped into the distastefully named ‘millennial’ generation, there would be many within the country who wouldn’t be sympathetic of a teenager lecturing them on stewardship of resources, but she knew how tedious the topic was to her father; as he knew his time was finite on the planet, he didn’t care if it all went to hell after he died. And as she had no intention of living longer than him, it suited her fine, as well.

Her computer alerted her that Jack had cc’ed her in an email that went to the top levels of the administration and she opened it curiously as she recognised Alana’s name as the subject. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Mrs Madchen was looking at her own laptop screen as well. Jack had typed out a message that…She frowned, not sure she was understanding what her father’s Chief of Staff was trying to say. Outing Alana’s former ‘identity’? There was a link to Tattle Politics and small audio clips attached to the email. Her headphones had already been on to block out the sounds of her office, so she played them straight out of her email, eyes skimming over the email in confusion. Why was Alana the subject of anything? She was—

Abigail flinched at the sound of Rush Limbaugh’s voice, nauseatingly giddy for the subject he was about to scrutinize.

 _“Well, in case you had any doubts that Lecter’s got the worst administration in the White House, listen to this: they’ve got a tranny working there. Alana—or should I say ‘Alan’—Bloom is the personal assistant to Vice President Du Maurier.”_ There was a slight pause, one that was dramatic and heavy enough to allow those scandalised to anticipate that there would be worse news to come. _“I have information here that says he/she’s had three surgeries—“_

Abigail took off her headphones, stunned. Mrs Madchen was now fielding a call with someone who apparently wanted to know what the First Lady’s opinion on the matter was. And the matter being Alana, not Limbaugh. There were other members of her office whispering to one another and exchanging looks, which meant they’d found Lounds’ article or Limbaugh’s radio programme—Freddie hadn’t posted anything offensive, rather used the platform to slam the shock jock’s comments as ignorant, though it was clear that she didn’t mind getting the traffic to her site.

Abigail wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. As someone who never suffered the indignities of being caught off guard due to her father’s careful planning and tight control of the world around them, it was overwhelming to know that she, the White House, and her father were the now victims of circumstances that were too complicated to conquer. Seeing Alana caught in the mire of hateful and ignorant rhetoric created a tightness in her chest that she wasn’t sure would die anytime soon.

Should she send Alana flowers and a card proclaiming her support? Insist on immediate damage control and have the White House hire an image consultant for Alana’s own use? Her phone vibrated on the desk beside her arm, showing a text from her father.

<< _Maintain focus on the East Wing this morning._ >>

<< _I shall._ >> she typed in reply, wishing he’d provided her more information to work with.

***

In coolest part of the East Wing’s ground floor was an office that routed all incoming calls to the White House through a set of twelve operators; the eleven women and one man had been trained to answer the phones professionally and while they were not often made privy to important information during their daily briefings, this particular day they’d all be told to get to their phone stations and prepare for irate citizens expressing their disapproval of Alana Bloom’s employment in the White House. Two of the women openly turned up their nose at the information, while a few others were able to keep their disapproval to themselves.

All were given the quick reminder to thank callers for their time and for reaching out to the White House, and encouraged to flag the time mark of any call that became violent or indicated a threat.

And if they believed Dolarhyde was on the line, to press the small red button on the corner of their desk.

***

As Abigail sat to join her father and Abel for lunch two hours later, her stomach still had not settled from the stress that had been building over the shockwave of information building around Alana and the White House.

“Have you seen the latest article in Tattle-Politics?” she asked quietly, knowing that her father must have, but unsure how to broach the subject any other way.

“I have.” He straightened the orchid blossom in the vase facing them.

“I—“ she nearly said she’d been caught unaware, but worried that it sounded ignorant.

“Yes, I knew about Alana.”

“I had no idea. I keep thinking back on all the times I was around her growing up,” she said. “And I’m not sure if I ever said anything offensive or cruel.”

“You have said ignorant things when you were much younger, but to my knowledge nothing that was in her presence.”

That didn’t make her feel any better. As the First Lady, she was supposed to project inclusivity.

“What if someone tries to hurt her?” As often as she gave the nation credit for its unexpected progressive lurches forward, there was still a conservative cancer that threatened the body of their society as a whole.

“The Secret Service is already ensuring her safety. You needn’t worry about her.”

Abigail found herself staring at the weave of the table cloth and felt her father’s eyes watching her.

“I shall ensure that no one in my office says anything.” It felt weak to offer the promise, even if she knew she could enforce it upon her employees. “I hope she doesn’t think that I never got along with her because of that. I just didn’t want to compete with her.”

“Of course you didn’t, darling. I wanted you to be selfish.”

“I am,” she promised.

“I think it’s scandalous that the conservatives would use an employee’s life as an example of the administration,” Abel informed them as he sliced into an asparagus spear fanned out on his plate. “Absolutely scandalous.”

“There will always be those who choose to make a story salacious simply to push their own agenda. Freddie is no different than Rush—they both want people listening to their influence and they’re using one of our friends to achieve that.” Abigail sniffed derisively.

Abel began to talk quickly about ideas that he had for the White House to show solidarity with one of there own, and while Abigail was listening, she was starting to drown in the self doubt of her own past with Alana.

******

For his first independent venture out of his bedroom, Will elected to spend some time in the rooftop greenhouse; someone had placed a patio lounge chair for him to recline on amongst the growing orchids and other assorted tropical flowers that were being cultivated for the Vice President’s office. It was hot and humid in the greenhouse, and while Will hated the sweat forming on his skin, it was also familiar to the swampy, muggy heat of the south. He rest his head back against the pillows, the fly fishing magazine he’d brought along dropped across on his chest; he’d come out that morning with new sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his face to protect his healing skin from the unusually warm spring sun. As the hours crept onwards, lunch had been brought up for him from Hannibal via the Secret Service and he’d refused to touch it, though years of starving had left him filled with guilt for letting the food go to waste. A lethargy had overtaken him and he wondered if he’d fall asleep soon.

Brauer’s voice jolted him out of the comfortable stupor he’d been slipping in. “Visitor, Mr Graham. Ms Bloom.”

He sat up in the chair and stared at his agent momentarily before nodding; at some point he’d have to see her, or more correctly, let her see him, and with the majority of his scars formed and the gore gone, it was time to reveal himself. He collected the magazine off his chest and tried to make himself look somewhat presentable. Maybe he would feel better because she was in a vulnerable state today? No, it only made him feel worse.

“Hey, Will.” Her smile was frozen in place as her stare was drawn to the healing scar tissue.

“Hey.” He felt awkward and ugly, eyes careful to avoid looking at her expression anymore. “Come have lunch with me.”

She took a seat on the extended portion of the lounge chair and he could feel her eyes touching every scar on his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I look. How are you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve had better days.”

When she glanced down at his lunch tray, he pushed it towards her. “Help yourself. I’m not a fan of White House tuna salad.”

She didn’t hesitate to pick it up. “My favourite. What’s your smoothie made out of?”

“Blackberries, yoghurt, honey, and uh, a few herbs that Hannibal threw in. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” He wished she’d help herself to it as well, even though he knew she wouldn’t.

“How much weight have you put on?” she asked in between bites of the sandwich.

“This week? About four pounds. I keep losing it because my stomach doesn’t always agree with things anymore. Doctor says it’s because everything got thrown out of balance. Digesting things is hard.”

That was semi-true.

“You look better. Your skin looks healthier.”

Having Alana talk about his appearance was still a little too much for him at this point and he grimaced, which she no doubt noticed.

“How’s everything with you?” she asked, her voice softer.

“Slow. Recovery takes a lot out of me.” He took off the sunglasses and set them on the side table. “But Abigail tries to distract me from everything.”

“That’s sweet of her.”

They were quiet, and Alana ate the salad while Will clenched his hands into fists over and over as he forced away the emotional discomforts that continued to bore into his thoughts. After she’d eaten most of the salad, she patted her mouth off with the napkin he handed her and set the plate back on the table.

“Nice outside today,” she commented.

“Thank god for global warming,” he grumbled.

Alana grinned at him and no longer able to pretend nothing was wrong, he blurted out, “How are _you_ doing? That was a really shitty thing for Limbaugh to do to you.”

Her lips thinned and she gave a jerking movement with her shoulders that was no doubt supposed to be a shrug. “I’m trying to stay cool and not let it get to me, but you know what? It _was_ a really shitty thing. I didn’t deserve it. Now everyone’s staring at me and I know they’re all trying to find what they’ve missed. Or they’re saying things like ‘I would never have known’ or, ‘You really look like a woman’. Oh gee, _thanks_. I’m so relieved to be up to your standard of what a particular gender looks like.”

“Tell Hannibal and he’ll have them fired,” Will prompted.

“Bedelia’s hired a firm to come in tomorrow and start mandatory sensitivity training.” Alana’s look became distant. “I just don’t enjoy having everyone’s eyes on me. I know what they’re thinking.”

Will was more than willing to let her have any self pity she might feel as she was facing a new life of being public outed, a nightmare he knew he would have to face when it inevitably became known that he was in a relationship with Hannibal. He didn’t even want to start considering the danger she’d live in.

After a moment, she turned to him and gave him an apologetic look, perhaps feeling guilty that she’d forgotten his own misery. “I’m happy you’re back here with us.”

“I’m happy you’re in my life, Alana.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like between us…” She gave him a kind smile. “But I’d certainly say you ended up with someone better suited for you than me.”

His stomach clenched in fear and thrill at the thought of the man he loved. “I suppose so.”

As she stood and straightened her skirt, she teasingly said, “Don’t tell Hannibal I ate your lunch. He’ll take away what’s left of my beer.”

Will rolled his eyes in reply and she laughed.

“Am I welcome to visit with you again?” she asked.

“I’d like that.”

“Great.” She reached out her hand to him and when he took it, she squeezed it. “Let me know when you’re free.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” he insisted.

She nodded and they reluctantly released one another’s hand.

*****

Four days later, Will sat with Perlman in his sitting room again, listening to the updates on the hunt for Dolarhyde; it was certainly not normal protocol to give so much information to a victim of a crime and definitely not when said victim had no professional training in anything to do with law enforcement.

Perlman had spread out everything on Will’s coffee table, leaving it perversely disorganised and Will considered that he’d been around Hannibal too long if he considered it a thrilling breaking of the rules.

“Mr Jacobi’s employer? Tied to a white power movement in southern Florida.” Perlman told him, pointing to a photo. “We’re not sure if he’s involved with REDDRAGON, but we brought him and his wife in for questioning. Everything remotely related to him has been frozen: his accounts, wife’s accounts, children’s accounts, business, parents accounts, inlaw’s accounts, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins—there’s no easier way to put pressure on someone than to make them responsible for family money.” Perlman gave a small, nasty smirk. “He’s having to explain why he’s suddenly so popular with the Feds.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Will murmured.

“He has strong business ties to the community and let me tell you, many of them find it very interesting to have him being investigated while Dolarhyde’s been confirmed in their area.”

Will frowned, not interested in the burden of destroying someone one’s life for the sake of being vindictive. “Threatening someone with the court of public opinion is a very dangerous thing to do, Agent Perlman. Be careful how you wield that power.”

“If he cooperates with us, we can make a public statement about his assistance in an ongoing investigation. If he wants to keep delaying the inevitable, it’s not my fault what the public thinks. This is about his willingness to work with us.”

Will saw the parallels between Perlman’s logic and Freddie Lounds’ drive to have the truth at whatever cost, even if that truth wasn’t real.

“There’s mirror lodged in all of the Leeds’ eyes.”

Will could see Dolarhyde as he’d looked the night he had escaped Marathon, his eyes large and teeth bared in a snarl. Will knew immediately why the terrorist leader had mutilated the body in that way. “He wanted to see himself. Like they were alive. Watching him. He wants to be seen.”

Perlman pulled a glass bottle with a minimalist logo out of his messenger bag and when Will raised an eyebrow at the unusually green, soupy liquid inside, the agent explained:

“I’m on a juice cleanse for the week. My acupuncturist wants me to try it.”

Will nodded slowly and when his stomach rumbled, Perlman offered, “Want some?”

Embarrassed, he didn’t stop the other man from pulling Will’s empty coffee cup over and pour some of the drink into it. “Thank you.”

“This stuff is sweet, not that wheatgrass crap that tastes like a cow shit it out.”

Will drank it gratefully, having never had wheatgrass to compare it to, though he conjured up the thoughts of a freshly mowed lawn.

As he considered the slightly astringent qualities of the drink, he asked, “How quickly was I eliminated as a suspect?”

Perlman seemed surprised by the question. “It took about twenty-four hours for it to be official.”

“Was there serious consideration that it was me?”

Perlman gave a slight shake of his head, the glass bottle resting before his lips. “Not really. It was clearly something that required more skill and manpower than you had.”

Will nodded, staring into the empty basin of his mug. “What is the Secret Service willing to do to bring him in?”

“At this point, almost anything. Legal, of course.”

“Of course.”

*****

Tony getting upset about the food situation with more frequency and Will had reached his limit of tolerance for lectures on ‘eating right’. They’d had another very tense standoff when Tony had brought lunch into the room, and while he’d insisted that the food hadn’t been handled by Hannibal, Will couldn’t trust anything. Tony had then—in a very condescending manner—said that Will was making his job difficult.

“Then fucking work somewhere else!” Will shouted through his gritted/wire-bound jaw as he stormed out of the bathroom where he’d tried to hole up in an attempt to get away from his nurse.

He was exhausted by the time he reached the sofa in his sitting room and collapsed onto it, irritated with himself for being so physically weak and for the emotional outburst. Tony didn’t follow through the door that Will slammed and he felt guilty for how he was treating someone who only had Will’s actual wellbeing in his interests. He languished on the couch for a short amount of time before he heard Brauer enter the room.

“Your kid wants to come in.”

Will nodded, not opening his eyes.

A moment later the door from the hallway opened and he heard the soft swish of fabric he assumed to be Abigail’s skirt as she walked over to him.

“What’s going on?” Abigail knelt at his side, her hand coming to rest atop his.

“Everything.” He uncovered his eyes. “I’m not—

“What can I do? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“You can’t be trusted.”

She was very carefully brushing the back of his hand with her fingertips and while everything about her demeanor was calm, he could feel she was holding back a deluge of emotion and desire to control. It wasn’t compassion, so much as it was instinct to manipulate.

“Will, you’re not putting on weight. I’m worried.”

“I’ve always been thin.” His voice was a weak protest, pathetic sounding to his own ears.

“You’ve always been underfed or sick. That’s not the same.” Her eyes finally looked up to his. “I’m not trying to push what I eat on you—I want you to eat what _you_ want.”

“Let me go.”

She pulled her hand back, but remained in the crouched position, her voice still calm and soothing. “This might be PTSD. I know that’s one of the symptoms.” Her armchair psychiatry would have been cute if he didn’t know the gnarl of roots within her own psyche. “They told me that you killed people.”

Ah, killing in self-defense as apposed to killing for hunger. She didn’t see this as _‘I never wanted to kill someone in the first place’_ she saw it as, _‘I didn’t get to kill under the conditions I wanted’_. But he appreciated her sympathy, even if it wasn’t correctly conjured.

“Killing someone is the ugliest feeling in the world,” he told her, the bare honesty painful to voice.

While she kept her face controlled, the fleeting puzzlement didn’t escape him. He could feel her own instincts to fight for and defend someone she loved, that there would be overall indifference in slaughtering anyone that stood in her way.

“Is that why you don’t want to eat?” Her hand was hovering by his again, the warmth causing the hair to stand up on his skin. “What if you never get better because your body isn’t able to care for itself?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’d rather…die on this principle?”

“Please go back to work,” he instructed, weary with her and the White House in general.

“I care about you. You’ve survived so much.”

“Go away.” His fingers tightened around hers, wanting her to stay.

She rest her head against his hand, her breathing controlled and smooth.

“Let me save you,” she whispered.

*****

Hannibal found Tony in the Lincoln Bedroom’s sitting room beside a stack of folded laundry, eyes closed and rubbing at his temples. He had been notified by Secret Service that Will had had a very loud argument with his nurse and while he’d retreated to the rooftop greenhouse, Tony had remained in the Residence to complete the many tasks that made up caring for Will; Hannibal had thought it best address the current state of Will’s diet and attitude with the man who had the most access to him.

“If you have a headache, I can bring you something.” It was an empty offer.

“Sorry.” Tony sat up immediately, having the decency to show respect at Hannibal’s presence. “He’s really being weird about the food still. Did you know that he doesn’t trust me with anything? Not even something prepackaged?”

Hannibal sat down beside the stack of clothing, clasping his hands together as he looked up at Tony. “What do you mean?”

“He has Secret Service go buy his food for him. And I offered to do it, if that’s what he really wants—you know, junk foods—but he refuses! Says that I can’t be trusted!”

“I apologise for his behavior.” While Will was given considerably leeway in he personality compared to everyone else in his life, Hannibal found it unacceptable for Will’s behavior to employees.

“No! That’s—that’s not what I meant.” Tony had never been one to complain and rarely placed blame at other’s feet. “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t trust me. I thought his psychiatrist would be able to help him with this food situation.” Again, the other man paused. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about him this way.”

“You are frustrated, but you have been completely professional with him. And for that, I am very grateful.”

“Thanks.” Tony stood from the couch and lifted the stack of laundry. “Better get these put away.”

“Perhaps after we put Will’s clothing away, I could make something sweet for us to enjoy in the kitchen.”

He didn’t miss the dilation of the other man’s pupils as Tony smiled. “That sounds great.”

*****

Will had left the greenhouse after an extended nap, which had ended abruptly when his restless sleep began to fill with thoughts of Dolarhyde. Walking down the steps to the Residence, he paused upon seeing Hannibal and Tony walking down the hallway from the kitchen; perhaps to the agents with him, it looked as though Will was trying to find signs of infidelity, but in fact there was guilt swelling within him at the thought of Tony’s emotions being played with by the leader of the free world. He saw Tony’s smile and lingering look on Hannibal’s lips as they talked, that Hannibal’s posture was leaned in just enough that someone might read into it, might think they were being flirted with. Will was certain it wasn’t a mistake, that Tony was supposed to think that there could be _more_.

When the nurse returned to the Lincoln Bedroom, Hannibal turned to look in Will’s direction, no doubt having realised that he’d been watching the entire time. Hannibal came to Will and Will was quick to murmur,

“Don’t tease him. Don’t lead him on.”

Hannibal, who rarely granted mercies, stared at Will as though he might find meaning in the request. “As you wish, Will.”

“I’ll apologise to him. For my behaviour.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that, Will.”

Hannibal’s posture was leaned in just enough that someone might read into it, might think they were being flirted with.

*****

Abel, who considered himself to be the gatekeeper of the East Wing, was concerned about something that had arrived in the First Lady’s office and originally considered that it was a mistake, but then thought better of it and decided to bring the matter to Abigail’s attention.

“Why are you invited to a concert with Governor Budge?” he asked as he watched her typing out a speech.

“And Franklyn,” she added, not looking away from the screen of her computer.

“Your father wasn’t invited. Just you.”

She hit the backspace key a few times—apparently she wasn’t able to talk and type at the same time. “It’s nothing bad. I just wanted to give Daddy and Will some time to themselves. Governor Budge isn’t going to try anything.”

“Are you certain?”

She looked up at him, confusion across her face. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Governor Budge and I share interests and hobbies, nothing more. I promise.” “Besides, I have agents with me. No one would dare try anything with me.”

He sat down in the seat across from her. “Perhaps I should come with you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Abel, who did not enjoy the thought of tattling on Abigail, was very seriously considering voicing his opinions on the matter to Hannibal. Through the limited research he’d done, he’d found that Abigail’s reputation as First Lady had been so far tarnished by the confusion of Will Graham’s role in her life. He slipped the tickets into his suit’s pocket and with her attention back on the computer, he typed a quick text message to Hannibal’s assistant Mapp so that he might find time to talk to the President about the pressing matter.

*****

It was a typical afternoon in the office, to the point where Abigail had allowed herself to relax and not pay attention to what was going on around her. Had she been watching her employees with the hawk-like astuteness her father did, she might have noticed that her head secretary was somewhat more sluggish than usual, that she’d started to develop a pallor beneath her foundation in the past hour.

“You don’t look very well,” Abigail said with a frown as she looked upwards at Ms Lebeau, finally noting the ashen quality to her skin.

Her secretary raised an eyebrow in confusion and then as if staged, her eyes rolled back into her head as she collapsed to the floor in front of Abigail’s desk.

“Oh my god!” Mrs Madchen cried out, setting her tablet down precariously close to the edge of Abigail’s desk.

“Beth!” Georgia shouted, the handful of files falling from her hands as she ran towards her friend.

Barney approached them very quickly, sidestepping the fallen woman and grabbing Abigail firmly by the upper arm. “First Lady, let’s get you decontaminated.”

Abigail allowed herself to be led away by her agent, looking down at Beth curiously before turning to Barney, who had placed himself between her and the fallen woman.

“Have medical come up to the First Lady’s. LeBeau has collapsed. Taking First Lady to decontamination room,” Barney said into his earpiece as he hurried her out of the office.

“Do you think she’s—“

“No, just standard procedure.” He unlocked a nondescript office door down the hallway with a key card and flipped on the lights. “She probably fainted from dehydration or not eating enough. The medical team will be able to tell us.”

There was a decontamination shower unit set in one corner of the room and forgetting that modesty was a normal thing, began to strip out of her clothing, wadding it into a plastic bag that was being held out to her. Barney had quickly averted his eyes, using his fingertips to prod her towards the heavy layers of plastic sheeting that made up the decontamination unit.

“This won’t ruin my clothes will it?” she asked as she watched an agent wearing bright yellow rubber gloves pick up her leather loafers that she’d stepped out of.

Barney stood by the shower’s external controls and shook his head. “Shouldn’t. Unless it is something dangerous. Then they’ll be burned. Now close your eyes.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath as the shower sprayed a decontaminant over her body; the chemicals were cold and she clenched her hands into fists as kept herself from hunching over or gasping from the startling temperature change. Sixty very long seconds under the decontaminant and then a startlingly warm blast of water switched over to wash everything off, leaving her panting and shivering as she tore off her bra and underwear blindly, throwing it on the bottom of the plastic shower basin. Scrubbing her hands over her face and scalp to remove any traces of the mustard yellow chemicals, she spit out any water that had entered her mouth, cleansing herself of whatever had been used to clean her off.

The shower turned off and she wrung out her hair, allowing an agent to hand her a large, sealed plastic bag through the foggy plastic sheeting of the shower; there wasa sterilized, limp bathrobe and flat slippers that could be put on either foot. Tearing off the top of the bag she pulled out the bathrobe and slipped into it, belting it tightly around her waist; the decontaminant had a strong odor to it and it was beginning to burn the back of her throat. Pulling out the slippers, she wadded her wet undergarments into the bag and stepped out of the remaining puddle in the shower. One of the agents in the room knelt without prompting to let her slip her feet into the cheap, throw-away slippers that had been pulled out of the same plastic packaging as the robe had been and Abigail put her hand on the woman’s shoulder to balance herself. Her clothing and the bag now containing her underclothes had been collected, Barney explaining that they could use the secret passage ways to get back to the Residence so that she might be able to dress into new clothes and properly dry herself off.

She nodded and allowed herself to be led away, wondering if Lebeau’s collapse had been something simple as her agent suggested, or the build of something much more complicated.

*****

Abel had been given an afternoon time slot to meet briefly with Hannibal and he felt anxious about it, hoping he wasn’t overreacting, that he wouldn’t get Abigail into any trouble or create awkward feelings.

Hannibal greeted him at the Oval Office door and led him to sofas. “Hello, Abel. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It’s about Abigail. This morning she received tickets to attend a concert with Governor Budge.” He pulled the tickets out of his jacket and handed them over to Hannibal. “I don’t know much about Governor Budge, though I’m sure that the voters of Maryland had the utmost confidence in him if he’s been reelected.” While he didn’t know much of Budge, he didn’t want to slander someone whom Hannibal potentially respected. “I am concerned that…there is a large age difference between them and that the public will view her relationship with older men as questionable.”

“I see.” Hannibal glanced over the tickets and then set them on the coffee table between them. “Abigail is quite lonely in the White House as you might imagine. It has been harder for her to make friends, considering how much power she wields compared to those around her. While I do not necessarily find satisfaction in her acquaintanceship with Budge, she is an adult and he has a solid reputation. I would not wish for her to rebel should I stand in her way.”

Abel agreed that pushing her away from something that was likely harmless wouldn’t do anyone favours, but he still felt the welling paranoia within him pursuing the matter. “I just worry about her. There are those who would try to take advantage of her charming nature.”

Hannibal smiled slightly. “I understand your concern.”

“Perhaps I should chaperone. So that there will be no doubt in the public’s mind that it is simply an evening out in the company of someone she knows,” he suggested.

“I feel that would be wise. But let’s not tell her now. I would hate to have her dwell on the matter and feel as though she is being treated like a child.”

“Right.” Abel did not often have many opportunities to speak to Hannibal alone and while he considered the timing might not be the best, it would have to do. “If I might ask a favour?”

“Please do.”

“I would…” He paused, making sure the words he wanted to use were delicate enough for the situation. “I am appreciative of any opportunity that Abigail gives me to work with her and to help your administration. But I feel as though my strengths are perhaps not being utilised to their fullest. I would be very grateful if you might convince Abigail to let me become her full-time speechwriter.”

To this, Hannibal’s smile grew a bit brighter. “I agree that would serve her well. Consider it done.”

Relieved that everything had gone very, very well, Abel stood. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

Now excused and headed back to the East Wing, Abel was surprised to see the commotion ahead of him; people had been forced to line up along the hall to make room for a crash cart being wheeled quickly in the direction he had been headed.

“What’s going on?” he asked an agent who was standing nearby.

“Someone’s unconscious in the First Lady’s Office. We’re getting them to medical and then coordinating if they need to be taken to a hospital.”

Clearly it wasn’t the First Lady or there would have been more hue and cry. “Who was it?”

“Lebeau, the secretary.”

While he felt sorry that the young lady who handled many of the office’s inner workings wasn’t well, he also felt as though there was a potential opportunity for him.

*****

On evenings when Abigail could fit in school work, she often elected to sit in Will’s sitting room with him while he read over any Tattle-Politics articles concerning the First Family and wrote notes. It was relaxing and she could ask him any questions on assignments she needed help with or suggestions to improve her understanding of the courses she had online. The would sit on opposite sides of the couch, using the armrests as platforms for their laptops and the silence was peaceful, broken occasionally by the question or observation they might have for one another.

“I heard that someone fainted in your office today.”

She knew he’d likely seen an update on Tattle-Politics and felt it was time to bring it up; at the moment the public only knew that one of her staffers had left the First Lady’s Office for medical reasons and that the White House was not commenting any further, though Abel Gideon had nothing to do with any of it, had not even been in the office at the time.. Secret Service had likely notified Will within moments of it actually happening.

Abigail didn’t look away from her practice test, telling him the situation almost as an afterthought. “Mrs Madchen told me that Ms Lebeau had a blood clot that caused her pancreas to die and the subsequent necrosis infected her body. She underwent emergency surgery and is expected to recover.” Selecting the letter B on the multiple choice section of the question she was on, she turned her attention to him. “The doctors think it’s from her birth control patches.”

He had been watching her and now he quickly turned his head away so that he was facing his computer screen again. “Well, I’m glad she’s alright.”

She didn’t feel any particular way about the matter. “The Secret Service is still prepared for biological weapons and they’ll be decontaminating my office until this evening just to be on the safe side.”

Ever since she’d been informed of the doctors’ suspicions as to the cause of her secretary’s collapse, she’d been considering her own routine with the birth control she’d taken every morning for years. What types of risks was she taking simply for the convenience of one period a year? It felt unsettling to know that she’d never been informed of the risks by her father, leaving her to question if she was truly willing to continue through with the medication. She still had to weigh the pros and cons of the matter.

Turning back to Will, she informed him, “I’m having my office send the ‘get well soon’ bouquet from you in the morning. Would you like to sign the card or have the stamp used?”

He stared at the computer screen, nose and brow scrunching in the way that usually indicated he wasn’t happy he was so deeply involved in politics and government. “There’s a stamp of my signature?”

“Of course. I’m not allowed to forge it.”

“I’ll sign it.” There was a knock at the door and Will flinched, before staring at her in apprehension. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No.” She left the couch and went to answer the door, somewhat surprised to see the visitor. “Hello, Agent Brown.”

Agent Brown stood in the hallway and the agent who watched the door was eying him apprehensively. “Good evening, First Lady. Is there any way I could see Will?

Abigail smiled apologetically, not at all sorry. “He's resting at the moment. Could I relay a message to him?”

At this, Agent Brown’s congenial smile slipped slightly before recovering. “Tell him I said hello.”

She nodded, thankful that the half shut door concealed Will from the agent’s line of sight. “I’ll be sure to let him know you stopped by.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled and shut the door quietly behind her, and as silently as possible, locked it.

“It was Agent Brown,” she said as she returned to the couch.

Will’s cheeks became red and he looked away. “Ah.”

“He still seems to be attracted to you.” When Will’s head whipped back around to look at her, eyes wide in shock, she shrugged. “It’s not like he’s very subtle.”

“Nothing happened,” he assured her quickly.

She had never even considered it a possibility. “Even if something had, I would forgive you.”

“But not him.”

“Do you want him reassigned from the White House?” she asked, concerned now that Will was uncomfortable even being reminded of the other man.

“I… had forgotten about him.” Will looked uneasy. “He clearly suspected you’re keeping me from him.”

“It’s inappropriate for agents to have unprofessional feelings for their detail. If he can’t accept that, then he needs to go.”

“I just don’t want to make things awkward.”

“I’ll have Agent Purnell look into the matter.”

Will nodded as she sat down on the couch and when he made no further comment, she returned her attention back to her practice test.

*****

Having the privilege of assisting in the investigation of a crime he’d been a victim to was a double edged sword for Will. The exposure to evidence that constantly caused him to relive the misery of being held captive was distressing and he loathed how weak it made him feel in front of Perlman or Brauer, who often helped him review anything that might be of use to the case.

Will watched the footage of REDDRAGON robbing one of the banks they’d targeted to finance their terrorism, sickened by the absolute brutality of the members of the group; they hadn’t been afraid to escalate the violence they used against helpless civilians who’d simply been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. The History Channel had contacted the White House twice to get a statement from him on a documentary they were compiling about the robberies, but he’d never responded, simply allowed the White House to decline for him.

Will found himself flinching on instinct at certain points of the surveillance footage he and Brauer were watching, only brought to his attention when his agent asked,

“You okay?”

“Didn’t anyone realise they were military?” Will asked, wanting to deflect the attention from himself.

“There’s some speculation in here, sure, but nothing concrete.”

Brauer gestured to the television screen. “We think Frost was the getaway driver in all this, though we know not everyone in REDDRAGON would be present at a robbery. We think they switched up roles and participants each time.”

Will almost asked who Frost was, then remembered that she was the only woman who’d been present in the group, and the only surviving member.

Will paused the video and pointed to one of the members who wore a ski mask; his gait of walking was unique and Will could remember hearing the steps when he’d be taken out of the holding container. “This is the—he was an asshole.” Will felt his cheeks burn with the shame of not being able to provide real information. He pointed to the man next to the one he’d identified. “I don’t remember him. But I didn’t get to see everyone. Just most of them.” He recalled how he’d only ever been around the majority of the members once. “They let me watch the Super Bowl with them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Will pointed to another man, shorter. “This guy—I think this is the guy who took me to the toilet most of the time. The way he’s walking reminds me of the guy—bowlegged.” The silence of the video made him feel as though there was real distance between himself and the participants. “Wish there was audio.”

Brauer tapped the screen, singling out a man who was holding a camera and apparently taking photos of the bank’s terrified customers. “This guy. Remember him?”

“No. I knew people by their voices.” He shook his head. “Sometimes by the way they walked.”

“Does it feel better to talk to me about it? I’m just asking because I don’t want you to feel pressured to talk about it.” Brauer raised an eyebrow. “You know I’ll keep this all in confidence, right?”

Will nodded, not comfortable answering right away.

Part of him couldn’t stand Brauer and his bravado, reminding him too distinctly of the frat assholes he’d desperately try to avoid in his freshman year of college—they’d never bullied him, but there had been an unspoken paranoia that their collective would be capable of creating an uncomfortable or possibly dangerous situation for him. But at the same time, Brauer had had military experience, combat training, and wasn’t a sociopath or devoid of empathy. He wasn’t the worst person to be around, Will supposed.

“I don’t think this fingernail is going to grow back,” he muttered, picking at the space that had once had a cuticle.

The agent grinned. “I did the Boston Marathon in ’97 and because my shoes were too tight, my big toe nails fell off. Took ‘em a year to grow back. Sort of weird-looking though. And I had to stop running during that time.”

Winston licked at Will’s hand, startling him out of the mental image of Brauer’s feet, which had not been pleasant. Brauer’s smile had slipped somewhat, apparently at a loss of how to handle Will. Will looked away, back at Winston, who had placed his head on Will’s knee.

“Do we need to keep watching?” He asked softly.

Brauer was quick to turn the television off. “No, we can stop. This is just a favour to the agents investigating the robberies.”

Will knew that his input was extremely helpful to the dozens of agents who were collectively trying to find answers and justice for him, but he was overwhelmed and exhausted from the ugliness that had no true purpose.

“I’d like to look at the Chesapeake Ripper files. Hannibal has them.” He couldn’t meet Brauer’s eye as he made the request.

“Sure, I’ll make a call.”

The files were brought to Will fifteen minutes later and he lost himself in crime scene photos of the Meyerhoff, sinking back into the love song Hannibal had created for him, the art of death made just for him.

*****

Abigail sat behind her father’s desk in the Oval Office one evening as she waited for him to return from the private conference he was holding with members of the Ukrainian Parliament, using the opportunity to draw in her sketchbook, which had collected much of her practice work. Sutcliffe entered the office, carrying a stack of files which he brought over to the inbox on the left of the desk.

“What are you drawing?” he asked curiously

“My father.” She paused in her study of shading and angles. “I’ve always loved his hands.”

“That’s very Freudian.”

“Do you think?” She glanced up at him. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“Well, I’m trying to curb weird drawing habits amongst Lecters.”

“What’s Daddy drawing that strikes you as weird? Or Freudian?”

“He’s drawing Will Graham.” He looked thoughtful. “Do you think that’s because he’s trying to remember Graham’s face before it was ruined? I heard that it looks awful.”

Abigail didn’t give him the satisfaction of a disgusted look. “Will is the Pantheon in the Rome of my heart. Time and man only touch the surface of him. But I reside within him as he resides within me.”

Sutcliffe raised an eyebrow slightly. “The cryptic shit is only charming with your father because he has an accent.”

“Was there something you wanted?”

“I just wanted to check in on you.” He seemed genuine and she was bewildered by the personal interest in her wellbeing. “And to drop these off.”

“Who’s saying that Will’s face is ‘ruined’?” she asked abruptly.

“Rumour mill. They said he was flown in with facial injuries. News junkets.”

She nodded slowly and returned her attention to drawing, hoping that her silence would be enough to send him on his way, and it was. Alone with her thoughts, she began to consider who was talking about Will and could only consider Freddie Lounds.

*****

For the concert, Abigail wore a green gown her father had suggested to her and pinned her hair up, hiding her scar behind a choker of tiger’s eyes beads alternating with those in gold plate; the necklace had been a Christmas gift from Clarice, clearly with the help of her father, as Abigail knew that the late assistant didn’t have enough taste to pick it on her own. Abigail wore it as a trophy, something to connect her to the woman she had positioned onto the Folger Park bench with such care. She looked lovely and smiled at her reflection in the mirror, pleased that the White House would be represented so well.

While she did not expect her father’s presence before she left (as he was spending time with Will), she certainly didn’t expect Abel to be wearing a brand new, bespoke tuxedo in the hallway by the elevators.

“I’m going to join you,” he announced, adjusting his bow tie.

“What? Why?”

“Because I feel it’s not proper for you to be alone with him. People might start talking about you.” He said the next part faster, as though he was becoming anxious. “I don’t want them to call you a _slut_.”

Irritation lodged itself in the centre of her chest and her hands curled into fists. “They won’t.”

“I’ve already talked with your father. I’m coming along.”

Still having half a mind to go to her father anyway to complain, she instead looked at her agents for the evening and nodded.

“Very well,” she said stiffly.

The ride to the Meyerhoff was tense and thankfully Abel didn’t attempt to fill any of the silence with small talk; she felt very betrayed he would do this to her after making him the office’s secretary until Beth Lebeau could return. And why had her father allowed him to go with her? It was clearly a decision he approved of, otherwise he wouldn’t have provided Abel a new tuxedo to wear to the event. Was she being punished for something or did her father truly loath the thought of her spending time with Governor Budge and had sent Abel along as a way to put an end to whatever fascinating chemistry was sparking between them?

At the Meyerhoff, it was clear to see that most concertgoers were shocked, if not entirely appalled that Abel was in attendance; even the governor seemed stunned by the turn of events. However, she wouldn’t let her own irritation get in the way of her manners and was quick to introduce them.

“Governor Budge, this is Former Lieutenant Governor Abel Gideon. Uncle Abel, this is Tobias Budge, current governor of Maryland.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Abel said, offering out his hand to the man who’d taken his place when he’d went to prison.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr Gideon. I’m glad you were able to join us this evening.”

“Abigail has many nice things to say about you.”

Abigail didn’t acknowledge the comment and proceeded to bring attention to the man never far away from the governor’s side.

“Uncle Abel, this is Franklyn Froideveaux. He is Governor Budge’s personal assistant.”

“Oh.” Franklyn’s fear was palpable, but he bravely and resolutely held out his hand for the other man to shake. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Abel seemed very pleased to be within everyone’s company and said affably,“I hope we have an enjoyable evening.”

Budge smiled. “I am certain we will. If I might lead us to our seats.”

Budge offered his arm to Abigail, who took it and allowed herself to be taken up the private box they’d be sitting in for the evening. She sat down next to him, not looking at Abel so as to give him the cold shoulder—if his feelings were hurt because he’d chosen to intrude on something that belonged to her, that was simply too bad.

The governor and she engaged in light conversation, all centered around the night’s performance and when the lights dropped, she calmed, eager to listen to the beautiful music. She was moved to tears by a few pieces and stood in ovation to the man more than once, every care in the world slipping away as she let the music overwhelm her. After the performance, Budge indulged her with a relaxed smile and asked,

“Would you care to join me for drinks?”

She smiled in return. “I would enjoy that.”

“I’ll shall meet you at the house, then.”

When Abel started to protest, she informed him that Franklyn would be able to chaperone, a quiet dismissal—after all, he wasn’t legally allowed inside the Governor’s Mansion, where he’d murdered people previously. Clearly hurt, but not wanting to argue, he agreed that it was time for him to return back to the White House and he’d see her when she returned.

Upon arriving at the Governor’s Mansion, she found Franklyn cutting slices of chocolate cake in the kitchen while Budge was pouring a dessert wine; they indulged in the cake and wine as they discussed the concert with one another. Franklyn surprised her with his understanding of music theory and Budge’s wit kept her hanging on his every word.

When it was finally time for her to leave, Budge held her captive momentarily with a prolonged stare and she imagined later that night that he was silently communicating to her that there could be more to come for the two of them, should she want it.

*****

Hannibal had sensed something had been brewing within Abigail’s mind for days and one morning as they used their personal gym together, he decided to find out what it was.

As he wiped sweat off his neck and face with his hand towel, he said, “Tell me what is on your mind.”

“I’ve decided to stop taking birth control pills.”

Hannibal added this to the ever growing list of reasons for why he now regretted allowing Abigail to interact with people—there was no reason why she should be making medical decisions for herself.

“You will not enjoy that.” He knew her well enough that she would regret the decision in time.

She was on the bars behind him, performing pull-ups. “I don’t want to take the risk of a blood clot. It doesn’t seem worth it.”

“It’s minimal, my dear.”

“Did you know that Ms Lebeau wasn’t well?”

“I have not spent enough time around her,” he lied smoothly. He had smelt the decay during his last visit to his daughter’s office.“Have you considered an implant?”

“I don’t want anything at all. I want to remove the risk entirely.”

“If that is what you wish.” He returned his attention to the treadmill’s monitor. “You should be aware that stopping will come with its own side effects.”

She lowered herself from the bar. “What kind of side of effects?”

“Cramping, heavier bleeding, a return of acne, fibroids.”

Vague distaste filled her expression for a moment. “I’ll…endure.”

“Very well.”

He returned his run, though kept a close eye on her from the mirrors on the wall. No doubt she was having second thoughts over her rebellious decision to have independence over her body and nearly reminded her that this was exactly why he made decisions for her, but decided against it. If she wanted her body to be an inconvenience to her, so be it.

*****

Will fidgeted in his seat, dreading the impending inquiry into his recent behaviour towards the staff and possibly Hannibal. He’d been particularly rude to Tony and the First Family about eating over the past weekend and he had known it would catch up to him eventually. Dr McClane hadn’t bullshitted him with small talk, pursuing the issue directly and unapologetically. 

“How have you been eating, Will?”

“Hannibal’s making you talk about this, isn’t he?” He tried to keep his tone from becoming too accusatory.

“Your nurse raised some concerns as well.” She sounded as though she was negotiating with a child to eat the vegetables left on their dinner plate.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not?”

He pinched at his forearm, trying to focus on the question and keep himself from becoming hysterical. “You’ll think I’m a lunatic.”

“You experienced something very traumatic. There is a rational explanation for your actions, even if they don’t seem that way to you.”

Her voice was very sympathetic and itself very rational. It made him want to run from the room.

“I’m afraid Hannibal will feed me human remains.”

The words hung in the air like dust motes in the light. Dr McClane’s face remained passive, though she shifted in her seat. Sometimes it hurt to talk to her about issues—she specialised in a particular type of client and as such it meant he was just as broken as every soldier she treated.

“Were you fed human remains while you were held hostage?”

“No.”

“Is there a reason you believe Hannibal would feed you human remains?”

“Hannibal the Cannibal,” he murmured, thinking of the posters that people had held high in support of Lecter; he’d always rolled his eyes and now…

“An unfortunate nickname.”

“I doubt his parents thought about it. They were following tradition. He was named after his great-grandfather, Hannibal Lecter the seventh,” Will said, citing the rote all staff members memorised. 

“Why do you think he would feed you human meat?”

Will watched her unseeing eyes and when the tension he felt building in his chest became too much, he looked out the window. “Did you know that the Russian sympathisers who took the embassy hostage when he was a child cannibalised some of the bodies while they were trapped?”

“No.”

“And that some of the victims were only body parts by the time the US military was able to gain ground and kill the sympathisers?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Hannibal’s family had to have closed casket funerals.”

Her face expressed a few reactions, none of them typical to what someone who had grown up learning to mimic expressions would make. He wanted her to look disgusted.

“I didn’t know that about the embassy crisis,” she said, her voice quiet, and filled with sympathy once more and now compassion.

“It’s classified.” His fingers clawed over his thumb, forming a loose fist that shook.

“Hannibal shared that information with you?”

“Yes.”

He felt dirty talking about Hannibal’s sister and parents without Hannibal’s consent. Now it was her turn to be quiet and Will fought the urge to run out of the room yet again.

“How often are you eating, Will?” she finally asked.

“I have a system.” A smile appeared on his lips fleetingly, _bitter_. “A few of the agents I know go buy me food I know is completely sealed. And they bring me the receipts and food, and I sit in bed and binge eat. I don’t want Hannibal to have contact with anything. Not the ingredients, not the packaging, not the food. That’s what the receipts are for—to prove that Hannibal hasn’t switched anything.”

Saying it aloud made the situation sound infinitely more dire than he’d realised it was, that he’d gone from ‘poor, sad Will’ to ‘incompetent Will’, ‘can’t-take-care-of-himself Will’.

Would the Secret Service demand of Dr McClane that all abnormal behaviour be reported to them regardless of doctor-patient privilege? Would Hannibal then have reason to argue that Will wasn’t mentally sound and request a medical conservatorship?

“Do you think Abigail might feed you human meat?” McClane asked, pulling him even deeper into the pool of regret he felt of saying anything at all.

No, at this point Will was certain that he’d created enough guilt and shame within her to prevent that from happening. But that didn’t mean Hannibal couldn’t use her. “I think she might be an unwitting agent.”

“How do you think he might have influence over your food?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“He’s a doctor, he’s a cook. He could…manipulate the ingredients so I’d never know. Inject it in through sealed plastics and foils.”

He turned away instinctually, knowing exactly how paranoid and deluded he sounded. Perhaps if people knew exactly what Hannibal was, they would argue Will wasn’t doing enough to prevent contamination.

She made an expression of confusion, giving away her innermost thoughts, though her tone remained impassive. “Do you think that he would go through all that trouble to sneak it into your food?”

Will felt frustrated and exhausted tears threatening to form, a hard knot forming in his throat. “My head is all messed up.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“Beverly’s coming by later this evening.”

At this, McClane pulled up her purse into her lap and began to rummage through it. “I have a few of my kids’ snacks in my purse. What do you think you can eat? Gummi fruits—“

“No, you don’t—“

“Your file says you were starved and that you are still grossly underweight. I’m surprised you’re not on a nasiogastric tube.”

His hands clenched as he recalled his latest argument with Hannibal. “He threatens me with that.”

“A nasiogastric tabe isn’t a threat, Will.”She held out a few plastic baggies that contained snacks. “Okay, I have some gummi fruits, trail mix but I think that will be hard for you to chew, a mango puree pouch, and some cheese-its. Will you be able to eat any of those?”

“I’ll take the crackers. I can let them soften on my tongue. The crunching might be too much still,” he admitted as she handed over the baggies.

“Don’t try to lie to me—I know when my kids aren’t eating their food or try to sneak it somewhere else. I’ve got a good sense of smell.” She passed over the drink as well. “And the mango puree.”

While he had learned to put his hunger aside for long lengths of time, Will felt the food was too tempting to pass up; there was an additional dread that should he refuse, she might suggest that Hannibal’s care was an inevitable conclusion to his hunger strike.

“Thank you.”

Will thought that drinking blended fruit from a pouch was disgusting and was reminded of ketchup in a packet, but it tasted good and sweet, so he drank it down without too much reservation. The crackers took a while to get soft and he pushed them against the roof of his mouth, smashing them until they were easy to swallow.

“You’re quiet.” A small smile appeared on her lips. “Good. You must have been very hungry.”

“I was.” His eyes started to sting with humiliated tears, but he kept his voice level. “Thank you.”

“Will, I’m going to bring food for you next week to eat.” She raised her right hand as though taking an oath. “I will not allow anyone to handle the food aside from me, including the President or the First Lady. Would that be okay with you?”

“I need to see the receipt,” he said quietly, ashamed to impose the ritual upon her as well.

“I can do that. What would you like to eat?”

Will knew that he could not survive off the meager foods brought to him by agents and had to take help where he could get it. “Maybe some canned fruit.”

“Would you like a pudding or mashed potatoes?”

“Yes. Both.”

“Do you want gravy with the potatoes?”

“Yes.”

“Brown or southern?”

His mouth watered at the thought of bacon grease. “Southern.”

“I’ll bring you some fudge—no walnuts— and you can let it melt in your mouth. My sister makes the best fudge.”

“I’d like that,” Will admitted quietly.

“What about a protein? Would you like—“

“No meat. I don’t eat meat anymore. Ever.” He said the words with enough force that it pulled on the wires holding his jaws together.

She nodded. “What about refried beans? Maybe with salsa?”

“No salsa. But I’d like cheese and onions.”

“Yeah, I can get that for you.” She seemed pleased with herself and put her purse back down by the side of her chair.

“Are you supposed to be humouring a patient’s delusions, Dr McClane?”

“I am concerned that if you were put on a feeding tube or force fed, it would trigger further psychological issues. It’s clear to me that you have an eating disorder and we’ll need to address what the larger issues with President Lecter are in our upcoming sessions. I don’t think this is healthy for you, but starvation is an immediate symptom of your mental state that I can address. Do you understand that this is not a rational way to think, Will?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

She smiled, and it was warm and genuine. “I’m here for you.”

*****

Reba encountered the President in the hallway, picking up the scent of his cologne or aftershave, the telltale measured steps of his leather soled shoes on carpet. The family dog, Winston, was with him—she could hear the dog’s soft footfall and the ’swoosh’ of his tail wagging.

“President Lecter, good morning.” She held out her hand for him to shake and noted yet again that his fingers felt different, longer and disproportionate to anyone else.

“Good morning, Dr McClane. I trust everything went well in Will’s session?” he asked and she considered that he would need to be her eyes for the time being.

She lowered her voice, knowing that there was likely security personnel near. “May I speak to you in private?”

“Of course. There is a room to our left that we may use. If you will follow me.”

She listened to his steps and followed after the sound carefully, counting as she moved into the new area. After a moment she heard the door shut behind her and she felt it was safe to talk.

“President Lecter, Will might be demonstrating signs of paranoia.”

“He has been.” His voice was quiet. “I have been careful not to say anything to anyone. I do not want him to be judged for the way he thinks.”

She was glad to know that he was compassionate to the other man, but worried what toll it took emotionally on the president. “I would like to remind you not to take it personally. Many survivors of sensory deprivation experience paranoia, and not surprisingly, his has centred around food and the trust that comes with being fed.”

“I am worried for him.”

“When I return on Tuesday, I’m going to work on the root of his issues further. I’m sure you understand that I cannot disclose any detailed information.” She thought for a moment and then added, “Though I would ask that you tell me if he’s exhibiting any unusual facial tics and bodily contortions. A facial tic is the spasmodic contraction of the facial muscles, so it might manifest around his eyes or mouth most noticeably. A bodily contortion will involve his limbs or spine bending or twisting in an angle that’s not normal.”

“I am aware of their appearance, Dr McClane. He has a poor response to water being sprayed on him, as you are aware, and it often manifests in contortions. As his jaw is currently wired shut and the left side of his face is still healing, any facial tics he might have are not as apparent to me,” the president informed her clinically, which was a relief, because describing something visually to someone was always very complex.

“Thank you for letting me know,” she said as she catalogued the information away. “I just want to make sure that as his friend, you understand that anything he says to you, anything he might do that seems…strange, that you don’t see it as a reflection of who you are or of your desire to help him. Will shall recover in time, but for now he is still fighting the damage that was done to him by REDDRAGON.”

“He is strong. He shall overcome this,” the president agreed.

“And it will take time and support.”

“He has those both.”

It was too tempting to pass on offering to pick at Lecter’s brain. “Mr President, if you ever wish to have a session with me, I’d be happy to make a space on my schedule for you.”

“I appreciate your offer, Dr McClane.”

*****

Will sat upon the end of his bed, reading a ‘get-well-soon’ card from the young family who’d adopted Dixie the summer before. He missed the little dog’s exuberance and tried to feel happy that she was with a loving family, tried not to recall how Hannibal had pressured him into giving the dog up; looking back now, it was obvious that was Hannibal’s intention, but at the time, he’d been so blinded with love, had felt obligated to do something selfless to prove he was worthy of receiving love.

And of course, that was the moment Hannibal re-entered the bedroom, dismissing Brauer and Tony so thatchy might have privacy.

“I’ve been told you exhibiting signs of paranoia.” Hannibal’s eyes bored into him. “You’ve told her, haven’t you?”

“Who you are? No.”

“But that you fear any food I offer you. And Abigail.”

“She didn’t understand. And I needed someone to understand.” Will shrugged, feeling bitter about everything“But she just thinks I’m crazy, so you don’t have to worry.”

“She must think you are so cruel to me.”

“Will Graham, the Monster.” His voice wasn’t quite a sneer.

Hannibal took another step closer. “How I would love to see Will Graham, ‘the Monster’.”

“She’s going to bring me food. She feels sorry for me.” Will said it as a challenge, daring Hannibal to come closer to him.

“You’ve made yourself pitiable to her. How very naughty of you. What am I to do about that?” Hannibal reached him and leaned in close enough that Will’s eyelashes fluttered on instinct. “When will you let me cook for you again?”

“Probably never, Hannibal.”

Hannibal placed gentle kisses along Will’s throat as he asked, “You trust me that little?”

“Even less.” His fingers threaded up through Hannibal’s hair and he tilted his head back, eyes slipping closed as Hannibal continued his attentions. “You’ll never see it as a true violation of my autonomy. I know you’ll try to honour the request so you’re not rude, but one day, you’ll want to push the boundaries. And I don’t ever want that day to come.”

“So you deny me one of my pleasures? Providing for the ones I love?” Hannibal’s words were felt in Will’s chest, low and warm.

“You don’t need to provide for me anymore. I’m not asking you to.”

“It’s never been optional.” Hannibal pulled away momentarily. “Shall I be forced to watch you eat the packaged goods others bring for you?”

Will nodded, needing to be firm on this matter. “For now. Until I think of a better system.”

“You are so cruel to me.”

Will’s face twitched into a sneer. “Hardly.”

Hannibal leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his lips. “I love you, Will.”

“I know you do.”

Will sighed, resigned to his fate in the arms of a killer.

*****

While public debate on the matter had been fairly steady for the first week of Alana’s outing, Hannibal put an end to any discussion within the White House by simply having all the restrooms in the West and East Wings allocated as gender-neutral, which did make certain employees angry, though they kept their opinions fairly quiet and never in the presence of him. Conservative media was furious and attempted to make a larger issue of it, though Hannibal knew it would die out soon enough. The White House already had a non-discrimination policy and the press briefings held every morning by Bella had never addressed the matter, refusing to validate a story about an employee’s gender as news. Public tours still had not returned to the White House, so there was no worry about civilians or volunteers feeling as though their religious freedoms were being actively violated. And while there was a good portion of the public that wasn’t sure if they were comfortable with the new changes, the administration was applauded for how it handled inclusivity.

On the last day of April, as the news was announced to the nation that the Lecter Administration did not segregate anyone within the White House, Alana didn’t say anything as she drank the bourbon Hannibal had poured for her, but there was a delighted and self-congratulatory smile on her lips, eyes bright with mirth as she sat there across from him. He was pleased for her sake, always, and raised a wordless toast to her.

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I can’t believe I finally finished this dang chapter. 14k words for your viewing pleasure!!!
> 
> +And thank you once again to everyone who has been leaving comments and kudos. They're all appreciated so much.
> 
> +Birth control has improved leaps and bounds in the past few years, definitely since 2014 (when the story is taking place). Nothing written here reflects the author’s opinion on birth control.
> 
> +The White House, and other high profile federal and state offices do have protocol in place should they suspect there is biological contamination of an area. While there aren’t many details for the public, a decontamination shower would be the general protocol should it be suspected that someone has been exposed to something potentially dangerous. 
> 
> +If you want to learn more about armed robberies and the inspiration for the REDDRAGON robberies, I recommend you listen to: Casefile True Crime Podcast Episode 18 “The North Hollywood Shootout”, which is an amazing part of recent LAPD history and the reason law enforcement now has armor piercing rounds in their vehicles. Also, if you just like hearing about true crime, it’s an amazing podcast! 
> 
> +Itzhak Perlman is a VERY talented violinist and I would suggest you look up his performances on YouTube. Here’s one of my favourites:
> 
> He is also related to our (fictional) Agent Perlman!
> 
> +in April of 2015, the White House opened its first gender-neutral bathrooms. In the story, this happens a year earlier, by complete coincidence, as this storyline had been planned since season one!

**Author's Note:**

> +Welcome back to Season Three of The Aristocrats! I want to thank each and every one of you for your continued support of this story. It meant so much to get the wonderful and kind comments from all of you during the hiatus between fics, the generous words of encouragement, and the very thoughtful opinions that were left for me to read. 
> 
> +Of course I’d post a story taking place in an american political AU on July fourth ;)
> 
> +Am I capable of ending or starting a story without Will in a hospital? We just don’t know.
> 
> +”Strangers When We Meet” by David Bowie is the song Will is hallucinating about. 
> 
> +Since Saul Perlman (Katz) will most likely not be on the show due to Beverly’s death, I’ve fancast him as Lance Reddick.
> 
> +Wow, almost an entirely lady POV chapter!
> 
> +If I were to make an Aristocrats/fic instagram account, would anyone be interested in that? I’ll be able to share updates and pics and whatnot


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